Beware Of The
by KKBELVIS
Summary: Beware of the what? The Dog? The Cat? Bigfoot? A dragon? Whatever the danger is…Sammy's gotten himself into it and Dean is in full-on big brother mode
1. Chapter 1

BEWARE OF THE…

By: Karen B.

Summary: Beware of the what? The Dog? The Cat? Bigfoot? A dragon? Whatever the danger is…Sammy's gotten himself into it and Dean is in full-on big brother mode.

Disclaimer: Not the owner

Rated: Hurt Sam territory ahead. The usual blood and crazy stuff.

Time set: Early years. I'm even thinking pre-show.

I swear on my life, they've got... an "It", a giant "It". They got it chained to the wall. ~ Mikey from the movie: The Goonies

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Dean had a real problem finding sympathy for the saucers- full-of-crazy town's folk of Blue Mound Kansas, population 275 and dropping.

He and Sam had gotten all kinds of eyewitness and not-so eyewitness accounts of what might be causing the unusual rash of disappearances – no bodies found.

From alien abductions, to goblins in the garden, to a group of zombies bearing the uncanny resemblance of Mickey Mantle, Marilyn Monroe, Babe Ruth, and Elvis Presley, to the farmer down the road being eaten by his own hogs, with most the screwed-up witnesses' jumping onto the Bigfoot bandwagon.

One thing now was perfectly clear and for certain to Dean. This was no outlandish hoax or 'greetings earthlings' fest now that Sam had been added to the missing person's list.

"Damn you, Sammy," Dean muttered stomping along. "I told you I didn't want to take this hoax of a job in the first friggin' place."

_Man he was pissed off._ His geek little brother was his for safe-keeping. It was a job Dean took seriously, from the top of his head down to the little hairs decorating his pinky toe. Dean lived and breathed 'watching out for Sammy'. Stubborn kid wasn't always easy to handle, but Dean had superpowers where Sam was concerned.

Hell, he'd wrote the 'how-to' book of All Things Sam.

As Dean searched, he thought back to that afternoon. It had been cold and cloudy as they traipsed through miles of open field full of drying underbrush and swaying waist high grass finding nothing more than a few rabbit snares, piles and piles of marble-sized deer droppings, and over a dozen golf balls. Not a drop of blood or crunch of human bone or lost shoe – with foot still inside indicating any foul play – was found.

They'd moved on from the field checking out a small algae-covered pond, and tiny muddy stream finding nothing but forgotten fishing tackle and a few empty beer bottles. Beyond the pond was a long abandoned Victorian styled farm house far removed from society.

They'd scoped out the home top to bottom finding nothing but moldy drywall and water damaged furniture, and a child's smashed Tonka Truck. The half-collapsed barn outback held nothing more intimidating than a stack of hay, an ancient tractor, a horde of field mice, several snakes, a family of skunks, a few dead rabbits, and an old hoot owl eyeing them from the rafters. Behind the barn, amid the tall grass, and probably once well-kept vegetable garden was nothing more than compost for discarded junk. 'Abstract modern art' Sam had called it. Past the pile of 'modern art' was a wooden fence and broken down plow and yet another stretch of tall weeds and a few scattering of trees.

Sam wanted to split up to cover more ground faster. Dean…not so much.

They'd settled the dispute in the usual adult way.

"Should have known better than to throw scissors," Dean grouched, pulling out his cell once again and trying to call Sam.

Last he'd seen of his brother his ass was vaulting over the wooden fence and heading off to the left end of the field, while Dean's ass had taken the right. Both their asses were to meet up back in this very same spot in one hour.

Sam's ass never showed.

"Crap," Dean mumbled heatedly, getting nothing but voice mail and shoving the phone back into his jacket pocket.

He squinted to see better. The edge of darkness had crept in fast. Red and yellow foliage now blackened by nightfall. There were six simple rules to remember when little brother went missing:

One: Make sure the kid was well and truly gone, and not just being an emo, premenstrual princess locked in a bathroom closet, hiding under a bed, or in the backseat of one of Bobby's Junkers.

_Obviously wasn't the case here. As Bobby's place was nowhere nearby, there were no beds or bathroom closets suitable for hiding in, and Sam had just had his period a little over a week ago._

Two: Remember the secret code when separated. Check all Fifth Avenues, last motel listed in the Yellow Pages, the local library, yuppie coffee shop, animal shelter, and under every bridge, under every tree, under every rock, and under every bar table in town.

_Done and done._

Three: Don't panic.

_Too late for that._

Four: Don't give up.

_Not ever an option._

Five: find the monster that took him and kick some monster ass.

_With pleasure._

Six: Don't panic.

_Always worth repeating twice._

Dean now stood silent beyond the backyard of the farmhouse at the very edge of the wet, cold, spooky field. He clenched a penlight – twenty times brighter than an ordinary flashlight – in his fist shining it all around. Jaw tightening, he narrowed his weary eyes, straining to see through the thick, ghostly-white fog that had drifted in and settled over the area.

"Come on." He took in a lungful of air and held it in his chest, turning slow circles as he stood in one place – a beacon in the night. "Sammy, talk to me," Dean whispered on a breath, closing his eyes and letting his inner Sammy-radar take over.

It didn't take long for something to ping in his gut and he stopped cold, eyes flying open. The penlight's beam had landed on a cut tree stump set among some rocks and tangle of vines. Dean inched forward and bent down pressing his palm to the bark, his hand coming away wet and sticky. He stared at his open palm long and hard, his brain not wanting to register what he was actually looking at. The substance was cold to the touch, nothing more than a dark shadow until he shined the beam of his light to it.

The ping in his gut clanged like a giant gong as his heart dropped into his stomach.

"No, no, no," Dean muttered, unable to take his eyes off the glistening ruby-red gore.

'_What if?_

Those were two very big-ass words that made Dean's legs shaky and his stomach start grinding his heart into a lump of pulp. The panic he'd been holding down started dragging his imagination through the mud.

_Sam was gone. Sam was hurt. What if Sam was dea…_

"No!" Dean straightened up, wiping the blood off on his jeans. "Pull yourself together, man," he said to himself, shining the penlight on the ground looking for more clues or a trail. "Bada-bing," he yelped, immediately catching sight of a quarter-sized drop of red situated next to beads of clear moisture glistening on a wet leaf flattened to the ground. "Not as good as bread crumbs, Sammy, but it will do," he breathed worriedly.

Dean went to work. Clocking in like the Bloodhound he was, all hunched over, nose to the ground, flashlight beam following the trail. He was completely concentrated and careful of his footing. Not wanting to disturb the drops of blood that had quickly turned to pinhead-size.

That was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good, because if it was Sam's blood – and Dean was ninety-nine percent certain that it was – pinhead-sized drops of blood meant baby brother wasn't bleeding out. Bad, because a man could only live forty days without food, three days with no water, and probably less than eight minutes without air. Sam hadn't been gone long. He certainly wouldn't starve to death, nor would he dehydrate to the point of death. He'd only been missing a matter of hours. Eight to be exact, but that was seven hours and fifty two minutes too long in Dean's 'Sammy' Handbook.

The trail was disappearing with each step he took, the dirt soaking up the blood drops at a fast rate.

Dean was going out of his head with worry. So intent on tracking, that when the trail ended and he looked up, he didn't realize he'd made his way all the way back to the farm house – a farm house that they both had checked out clean.

_Hold every friggin' thing! _

"What the…?"

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Teddy liked to sleep. Because when he slept, he could dream and in his dreams he didn't feel all alone. In his dreams he felt happy. Mostly he dreamt of the sweet lady with a warm smile and loving hugs, and pretty long, feathery, chestnut colored hair. She had a name, but Teddy could no longer remember that now, it had been so long ago.

Just like Dada, she had never come back either.

He dreamt of how she used to hum songs, or read storybooks to him every night before he was once again locked up and left alone in his special place.

Teddy dreamt often of his old special place. Wished he was there now. It was plain and small, and square, with smooth-to-the-touch blue walls, and one bared window that let in a few warm beams of sunlight in. He dreamt of playing with the tiny dancing specks that seemed to float about in those beams. He dreamt of a big white dresser, and a squeaky bed, and a few big metal trucks he liked to push around on the fuzzy carpet.

Having playthings made Teddy happy. But now those playthings were gone. Most broken, smashed up and added to the pile of junk up top.

Teddy often dreamt of one particular sunny day when he was sick and could not play with his trucks or the beams of sunlight. The pretty lady had come into his room and given him a new plaything – Floppy – a fluffy pink bunny.

Teddy was so happy; he'd flung his arms around the pretty lady and smothered her with hugs. Teddy had hugged her so long the pretty lady must have fallen asleep. He'd gently laid her on his bed stroking her hair and waiting for her to wake back up so he could hug her some more.

The sun began to set, but the pretty lady slept on.

Dada had finally come home and entered with a tray of food. Immediately Dada's face twisted into something Teddy never saw before. Dada started to shake, dropping the tray and splattering food all over the wooden floor. Then Dada exploded into screams of terror. Racing to the bed and pulling the pretty lady into his arms. She was all floppy, like Teddy's bunny.

Teddy had laughed clapping his hands. He loved his bunny. And he loved the pretty lady.

But Dada was angry. Shivering and crying and turning green. He swiftly carried the pretty lady from the room, locking the door behind him.

That was the last time Teddy ever saw the pretty lady.

Then it was just him and Dada.

After the pretty lady went away, Teddy no longer stayed in the square, smooth, blue walled place. Dada brought him to another special place where the walls were rough-to-the-touch, gritty and gray and cold. Where there was no sunlight or squeaky comfortable bed. It was a special place he had to stay locked in, for even longer, a place where he was chained to a stake and slept in an itchy mound of straw. Dada was angry, and then Dada was sad, and then Dada was angry and then sad again. Always wiping tears away from his eyes, yet Dada cared for Teddy when he was hurt, or hungry. But Dada never gave hugs or had the sweet smile that warmed him like the pretty lady from so long ago.

Dada would often scream at Teddy when he did something wrong. Telling Teddy he had to keep him safe or he'd have to do away with Teddy, and then he'd mumble something about a promise to the pretty lady.

Teddy did not understand the word promise or wrong. All Teddy knew was that 'safe' felt like forever to Teddy. Safe was not fun.

Dada said a lot of things Teddy didn't understand. He knew his name was Teddy. Understood simple things such as stop, go, stand back, stay away, hide, strangers, dog, cat, outsiders, happy, sad, playthings, keep safe, sleep, food, water, yes, no, mine, help, hurt, bunny, please, fun, up-top, chains, dig and build, among a few others

Dada would come early in the morning and unchain Teddy. They'd eat and then they'd dig and build and carve out the underbelly of Teddy's special place, making it bigger and bigger. Then Dada would chain Teddy once again to the stake. Teddy would reach out and grab hold of Dada's arm. Whimper and cry and beg Dada not to go away. But Dad always went away. Leaving Teddy alone.

Alone felt as forever as safe. Alone was not fun.

Being chained up and surrounded by the too cold walls, and too dimly lit glow of a few flickering candles –with nothing to cling to but Floppy – made Teddy curl up into a quaking ball.

Too soon the candlelight went out and Teddy was left chained to the dark.

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Every now and again, Dada would take Teddy up-top for a walk through the woods or fields. He taught Teddy things. Like how to collect water and capture food with rope. They played hide-and-go-seek. Dada would show Teddy the best hiding spots and how to keep to the shadows and make his way back to his special place without so much as a beam of light or a shadow following them. Dada would give Teddy a piece of candy when he played the game right. That made Teddy happy and he got really good at the game.

Teddy liked helping Dada. He'd help Dada carry back rocks and logs and whatever other junk they'd find to his special place so they could keep building. Other things they found would be stored and piled up in boxes and boxes. Dada called the objects playthings. Playthings were anything from wet newspapers to broken furniture and ragged clothing to rusted-out cars. Some things were kept down below. Other's kept up-top.

Teddy loved collecting the clutter with Dada. Those were fun times for Teddy, but fun-times were only sometimes. Most times Teddy spent long, grueling hours alone in his special place with Floppy as his only company.

A few times Teddy had managed to unchain himself from the stake and go wandering up-top alone, searching for playthings that he could bring back to his special place. Playthings were not always easy to come by. And most often broke quickly. Like the Yo-Yo Teddy had gotten tangled up in or the slinky that mangled around his wrists or the feathery hook that jabbed him in the thumb and got stuck there for days before Dada removed it.

The best playthings were the ones that were warm and cuddly and wiggly. Like the playful, yappy spotted-dog whose ears and tail ripped off way too easily, or the tiny, orange-stripped kitten that wiggled and wormed its way into a bloody towel-twisted bunch.

This always made Teddy so sad. Floppy was the only plaything he had that never seemed to break.

Dada did not like the warm and cuddly playthings. They made him angry at Teddy. After the kitten broke, Dada put bigger, heavier chains on Teddy, and Teddy could no longer go wandering up-top looking for playthings unless Dada took him.

One time, while Dada was busy chopping down a tree, Teddy managed to wander off for the first time in forever –alone. That's when he'd found his first Outsider walking around through the open field. The Outsider was about the same size as Teddy. Had long hair just like Teddy and was tossing a ball up in the air and catching it in a big brown hand.

Teddy remembered how excited he was to see someone his size – Dada and the pretty lady had always been smaller than him. He came upon the Outsider and clasped him from behind. The Outsider cried out, wiggling and waggling, the ball dropping to the grass and the big brown hand pawing at Teddy's face. Teddy only hugged the Outsider tighter. He loved warm wiggly-waggly things. They felt soft and happy.

But alas, immediately the Outsider turned blue and there came a loud _crack!_ The Outsider shuddered in Teddy's hold, one eye slipping to the right, the other slipping to the left, each eye unfocused as his body went to sleep like the pretty lady had forever ago. Broken. Like the spotted dog had been after losing both his ears and his tail. Like the towel-twisted cat.

When Dada found Teddy still holding the Outsider and stroking his hair, Dada exploded into screams of terror.

Teddy was so frightened he wet himself.

That was the last time Teddy was unchained and allowed out of his special place to help Dada collect playthings or play hide-and-go-seek. That's when Dada came to see him less and less. Checking his chains and leaving behind only large bags of dried food, and jugs of warm water and nothing more. Dada would take more candles from a giant crate full of them, place them about the room on top of other crates and rock ledges, relight the wicks, then go away again, often mumbling about fires and blessings in disguise and how if he only had the guts and had not promised.

Teddy did not understand.

Then one day Dada just stopped coming at all.

Night- after-night-after- day-after- day, Teddy was all alone. Sometimes he would cry all night lying on his mound of straw. With nothing more to do than watch the strange formations slink across the walls created by the glowing candlelight, he'd listen to the _plunk, plunk_ of dripping water. Waiting and waiting to hear Dada's footsteps. Waiting and waiting. But Dada never came. The flickering lights had long gone and all that remained was the cold and the dark and the _drip-drip_ of water.

Finally, after being in the dark forever and ever, the rumbling in Teddy's stomach and an aching need Teddy could not understand took hold. He just wanted to see his Dada. He wanted food. He wanted water. He wanted a warm and cuddly plaything, one that didn't break or hurt him.

In a fit, Teddy began to pull and tug and howl. After a lot of hurting, he finally freed himself of his chains.

Dada still never came. Dada was nowhere to be found.

Night-after-night-after-day-after-day went by, and Teddy did the only thing he knew how to do. He continued to stay hidden the way Dada had taught him. Lurking about and continuing to dig and build his special place. Capturing what food he could in the snares Dada taught him how to set, and collecting whatever he found, gathering water from the tiny muddy stream nearby in dirty tin cans and old plastic jugs.

Forever and ever he dug his special place deeper and deeper. Lined the cold gray-gritty walls with whatever he could. When the sun disappeared Teddy went to sleep on his straw, only this time without the chains, then got up to do it all over again the next day. Teddy had plenty to eat most days and plenty to drink, but he was always empty. He grew and grew. But for as much as Teddy found and collected and packed tightly in his special place or piled up-top, a nagging, aching, sickening pain somewhere down inside of him whispered for more.

Sometimes Outsiders would come snooping around. Animals mostly, sometimes others that reminded him of Dada and the pretty lady. Teddy would try to make friends. He missed his Dada, and just wanted someone to be with.

Teddy would sneak up on them and take them to his special place. The Outsiders never were nice. Always screaming and fighting him. Their eyes couldn't get any bigger. He'd try to hug them close, tried to make nice, but that made them scream even louder.

Teddy did not understand.

One minute they were shrieking and punching and kicking and crying and hurting. Teddy didn't like anyone to be hurt. He was all over them, trying to make them be quiet. Trying to make their pain go away, trying to show them how to be playthings, give them a big hug like the sweet lady used to give him when he was little. The Outsiders would only kick and fight him further until they stopped doing anything all together.

Then they were not much fun. Their warm bodies limp and quickly turning cold. Their eyes lifeless and rolled over white, or blankly looking off at nothing. He'd pound on their chests and push them all around the dirt floor trying to get them to move again, until everything just turned red and sticky and messy and Teddy would eventually thrust them aside like the rest of his broken playthings, piling them up all raggedy and torn and pop-eyed.

The Outsiders scared Teddy and he spent more and more time in his special place and less and less time wandering the field or woods.

Today Teddy woke to find he had no food or water. He had to go up-top. He took Floppy, his only companion, and headed up the rickety wooden stairs that lead out of his special place.

Teddy hadn't been up-top very long when he froze…stiff in his tracks. It had been forever since he'd come across an Outsider.

_Outsiders were noisy. Outsiders hurt. Outsiders broke. _

Fearfully he clutched Floppy, to his chest, every muscle in him twitching and straining as he let out a small whimper.

The wind picked up blowing through the Outsider's chestnut hair, feathering it back. It reminded Teddy of the pretty lady, but still he was afraid.

Teddy whimpered. This was the tallest Outsider he'd ever seen. Even though Teddy still towered over him, Teddy was scared.

The Outsider held something metal in his hand, but it was no toy truck or Yo-Yo or Slinky. It was nothing Teddy had ever seen before. The Outsider pointed the metal thing right at Teddy's chest, and didn't move, didn't say anything. Just stared, regarding Teddy curiously.

Teddy shuffled in his place, trembling with fear and clutching Floppy ever so close to him.

After a really long moment, the Outsider very slowly lowered the metal thing and put it away into his jacket pocket. "It's okay," The Outsider softly spoke. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's okay," the tall Outsider repeated, cocking his head off to one side and holding his palms outward in front of him. "Please, don't be afraid." The Outsider looked Teddy up and down. "You live out here alone?"

Teddy titled his head in curiosity, wetness dripping from his eyes and soaking into Floppy's fur.

"I know it's difficult to imagine, but I promise you… there are people who care."

Teddy did not understand the Outsiders mumblings.

"I can help you." The Outsider dropped his hands down at his sides, looking up at Teddy with softness in his eyes, eyes that reminded Teddy so much of the pretty lady. "My name is, Sam. Let me help you."

_Help._ Teddy knew that word.

This Outsider wasn't like the other's he'd come across. He didn't scream, or run, or kick, or bite, or look upon Teddy with big, round eyes. This Outsider smiled.

Teddy liked the Outsider's voice. It sounded kind and soothing, held a sing-song hum that had a sleepy effect on him. Much the same way the pretty lady used to forever ago.

Teddy relaxed a bit, now holding Floppy by one ear at his side.

"That's it. Come on, now." The tall Outsider moved toward him, so slowly and so gently. "I'm sorry. I know you didn't do anything to deserve this, but I can't take a chance. Not until I can figure out what to do for you," The Outsider said, reaching a hand inside a bag that he had slung over his shoulder.

Teddy was confused. Instinct told him to run, but a spark inside him, which he hadn't felt since his Dada left, kept him frozen in place.

"Man, I hope you can understand this. Easy, take it easy." The Outsider took something out of the bag. It was shiny. Two round circles that clanged and jingled in his hand.

Teddy gave a grunt of happiness at the pretty sound.

"Just relax now, going to help you, big guy."

There was that word again. 'Help.' It meant feel good things. It meant warmth and comfort. Teddy fidgeted anxiously. It'd been a long time since he'd had any of those things.

"Hold still now." The Outsider slowly reached out. "I gottcha." He opened one of the shiny circles and looped it around Teddy's right wrist. "This is for both our protection."

The loop was cold. Teddy eyed it suspiciously, but didn't pull away.

"Nice and easy…that's it," the Outsider cooed. "Not going to hurt –"

Teddy freaked and let Floppy fall to the ground as he yanked the loop off his wrists and tossing it into the bushes.

"Hey, hey, hey." The Outsider raised his hands up in front of him and stumbled backward a few steps. "That's fine. We can go another route. Just please….calm down. I didn't mean to scare you. I am not going to hurt you. Maybe we could just –"

"No hurt," Teddy yelled, fearfully grabbing the Outsider by the shoulders and tossing him toward the ground.

The Outsider's head hit the edge of a cut tree stump with a loud _crack_! And his eyes slipped into his skull rolling white like all the others. _Another broken plaything._

Teddy was scared. He quickly found Floppy, fishing the stuffed animal out of a muddy puddle. Holding the bunny tightly to him, Teddy paced nervously back and forth, howling and crying and staring down at the Outsider who did not move.

He was alone again. Teddy didn't want to be alone. He wanted his Dada back. He wanted to see the pretty lady again. This Outsider was the closest thing he'd come to getting that in forever.

Eventually Teddy calmed and dropped down to his knees crawling cautiously over to the sit beside the Outsider. Holding Floppy in one hand, he used his other to stroke the long strands of the Outsider's chestnut-colored hair away from the pale face and staring inquisitively.

"No, no," the Outsider moaned, "Dean. Please." Clutching fingers blindly reached out grabbing hold of Teddy's arm.

Teddy frowned in confusion at the hand that dug into his skin, but did not flinch away. This Outsider was not broken or cold or silent. The hand that held on to his arm so tightly was warm and begged him not to go away. The way Teddy remembered begging Dada not to go away so many times.

"Teddy no hurt," he said, stuffing Floppy into a pocket of his overalls. "Me… no hurt." He slipped one arm under the Outsider's shoulders, the other under his knees, and scooped the limp body up off the damp ground, bag and all.

"D'n." The Outsider shuttered in Teddy's arms, making strange noises, but still his eyes stayed shut.

"Mine," Teddy muttered, as he stalked off to his special place.

This was the plaything he'd longed for.

TBC –

AN: Story is complete. Stay tuned. More to come soon.

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	2. Link-by-Link

Beware Of The…

Chapter two

"_D'n." The Outsider shuttered in Teddy's arms, making strange noises, but still his eyes stayed shut._

"_Mine," Teddy muttered, as he stalked off to his special place._

_This was the plaything he'd longed for._

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Sam sluggishly drifted up from a land made of sticky cotton candy fluff. Crazy thoughts filled his jumbled head. Crazy thoughts like: In the song Yankee Doodle, was the guy calling the horse or the feather "macaroni"? Why did round pizzas come in square boxes? Why call the arcade game Donkey Kong when the donkey was clearly an ape? And just how fast did hotcakes really sell? But most importantly, why was life so damn unfair?

Sam coughed raggedly, and all the crazy thoughts seemed to disappear. All he felt now was warm and floaty. This was nice, he thought. He could stay this way forever – all drippy and woozy and lazy. But there was something nagging at the back of his brain, that something causing his eyes to flutter open.

"Hmmmm," Sam whimpered, only half aware, head hung low, chin resting on his chest.

He choked and spit smacking his lips together as he tried to find his mind and filter through all the thoughts and images flashing before him. He tried really hard to focus in on more important questions. Such as what, where, and why?

He'd been searching for something. Hadn't he? Walking along a path that wound around a cluster of boulders and cut tree stumps. He remembered he'd tripped and fell. Hit his head. No. He didn't trip. Something had attacked him. Something bigger than him. Bigfoot? A giant, dirty-pink rabbit? Bigfoot dressed up like a giant, dirty-pink rabbit? He couldn't be sure.

Sam shivered, a feverish chill running through him, hotter than hot one second, colder than cold the next. He wanted to go back to sleep or pass out, whichever, but knew enough he had to force himself to keep awake, put his thinking cap on, solve this puzzle.

"Nuhhh," Sam moaned, solving only one piece of the puzzle. He'd hunted enough years to know the feel of a concussed head.

_Hunted?_

Begrudgingly Sam risked more pain by opening his eyes; well at least he thought he'd opened his eyes.

It was unnerving waking up to nothing but cold and dark and spooky curling all around him like a black, hairy beast. _Crap_! Sam's shivering increased. Waking up to blackness always did bring on his claustrophobia. Was he in a box? Or maybe the trunk of a car? The bottom of a well? It was nightmarish to wonder and he wasn't sure if he really was awake or asleep. Sam took in a few calming breaths. It took him a few more dizzying moments to orient himself. He didn't have to see to finally figure out he was sitting on a hard packed dirt floor. His legs stretched out in front of him, back slumped into a corner. The wall behind him kept poking him in the back, and it was apparent it was crudely constructed of branches and jagged rock.

Sam slowly shifted to get his feet back on the ground, but the rattling sound of rusted chains cruelly yanked him back down to the cold-packed dirt.

"Guh," Sam moaned, his brain sloshing from one side of his head to the other by the sudden movement causing him to fall back panting.

_What the? _

He ground his teeth together now realizing his hands were free, but his ankles were cuffed, more than likely with metal shackles from the cold pinching feel of them. He bent forward, reaching down his legs with trembling hands and felt along until his fingers closed around the hard, gritty steel of a rusted chain. Lifting the heavy restraints he followed it link-by-link. Searching around in the darkness his right hand wrapped around a metal pole and followed that to the ground.

_Holy crap! He was tethered to a stake like some sort of neglected dog._

Sam tried to pull up on the rod, but it was deeply embedded. Searching around blindly some more he came across the familiar shape of a padlock. It felt cheap and it was old. He could handle this. Pick just about any device, even blinded by darkness. _Good thing too_. Sam clumsily fumbled inside his jacket pockets. He was never a normal boy whose pockets were filled with rocks and bugs and candy wrappers. Not Sam. His lips pressed together as he took inventory, quickly realizing he'd been cleaned out. Where were his gun, his flashlight, his salt and flask of holy water, lighter, and cell phone, and more importantly where was his lock pick? Not to mention his weapon's bag.

"Okay," he breathed out. "Think, Sam. Think." The pain and the darkness and the musky stench were a real brain drainer. His head was a real mess. Pounding with the force of the seven seas, and he could feel the blood plastered to the side of his face like dried-on glue. His body, however, seemed to run on instinct, fingers already doing the walking, reaching behind him to break off a pointy twig that was sticking him in the back. It was no paperclip or bobby pin, but it would have to do.

With shaky, cold hands, Sam got to work by touch alone. It was hard to stay awake, even harder to stay alert. Periodically he'd black-out, for how long Sam had no clue. He'd come to again after who-knew-how-long. On auto pilot, going straight back to working the padlock. Several twigs had already broken off in the old-fashion keyhole, making the task that much harder. His muscles were weakening and he was growing more and more nauseous.

Each time Sam woke, all he heard echoing back at him through the darkness was his own harsh breathing as he grunted and tried to get the pain under control, tried to get a better grip on what the hell was going on while he worked the lock.

Darkness swirled and spotted before his eyes, but he forced himself not to pass out again. It was strange how the blackness seemed to come alive and flutter across the bare skin of his hands, and feathering down his jacket's collar prickling the back of his neck. The feeling creeping him out.

Remaining silent and listening, Sam tried to find his other senses to fill in where his eyes had failed as he worked. But trying to find his completely unwired brain was proving difficult as it seemed to have been absorbed by the darkness. Thoughts and images ebbed and flowed, whirling around in chaos once again.

With his primal sense of sight gone, his sense of smell kicked in – strong and basic and acute.

Sam sniffed at the air. The musky, dampness that cramped-up his body gave him the impression he was in a large hole, maybe a cave. The smell of rotting meat told him he probably was the only thing left alive in said hole…for now.

It was a disturbing thought.

Then his thoughts did a one eighty and Sam suddenly remembered the farm house, the field. Dean throwing scissors, the two of them splitting up. Sam running smack-dab into the very thing they didn't know they were hunting. It was no Big Foot. It was no hoax. No monster. It was more like something straight out of a tabloid paper. A disfigured human being with a face only a mother could love, clutching tightly to a floppy dirty-pink bunny. And even though his size did not attest to it, he looked more like a lost and lonely and scared child, then the eight-foot tall full-grown man he was.

As Sam continued to work the lock, the image of the man became clearer. He had two noses and three eyes, his face a mound of lopsided, swollen, ape-like flesh. The man didn't seem to understand much at all. And judging by the few rotting teeth left in his mouth, unshaven face, and long thick black hair hanging halfway down his back that was gnarled with matts and burrs and bugs, Sam figured he'd been out here on his own for some time.

In thinking harder, Sam knew the man-child didn't seem to want to hurt him. The poor guy was scared and truly didn't know how huge he was, didn't understand his own strength. And Sam had just appeared with gun in hand, scaring the crap out of him.

Sam stopped working the lock, when he heard the shuffling of feet and fumbling about. Someone else was there in the dark with him.

Sam remained motionless, his head cocked to one side, listening intently.

He heard breathing – heavy and fast.

"Dean," he called, straining to see through the darkness hoping to see Dean's flashlight beam heading his way, yet knowing that was a lost cause. The shuffling feet had to be inside a size thirty-seven AA shoe, Dean wore a size eleven. "I know you're there," Sam called out to the darkness. "You can come out now. I'm not mad at you," he added quietly.

There came no response. Not as much as a flicker of light, only the sickeningly sweet odor of death that lingered in the air. Two horrible, powerful words Sam hadn't thought about before entered his muddled mind_. What if?_ There were a lot of 'what if's' in this world, but the what if's that freaked Sam out the most and sent him tail spinning out-of-control were always about Dean. What if Dean had run into the man-child as well and was here with him this whole time? What if he was unconscious? Hurt? Bleeding? Or worse yet, what if Dean was the very reason for the stench that assaulted Sam's nose right now.

The thought made Sam gag and he shook his head to free himself of the images. "Come on," he muttered, frantically concentrating harder on the lock with the twig.

No! Dean was fine and looking for him right now. He had to be. Dean wouldn't have tripped up. Not the way he had. His big brother wouldn't have tried to capture the man-child in hopes of finding him medical help. Dean would have just shot him there on the spot and been done with it. No questions asked.

There came more shuffling and a small whimper.

Sam's head jerked up. "Hello?" he called, but got no response, just the empty, hollowness that surrounded him.

Everything was quiet again, save for the constant sound of dripping water. Each drop echoing and he became more certain he may be in a deep, dank, dark cave.

The hair rising prickle at the back of his neck shot down his spine. What if this man was a cannibal? That would explain the disappearances. The horrific smell. Panic is a human certainty when found in deadly situations, and right now...Sam was starting to panic.

"Get a grip, Sam," he whispered, his inner hunter's voice slipping out dry, swollen lips. "Okay, okay," he panted taking in short, shallow breaths, composing himself as he finally unclicked the padlock and let it fall to the ground.

Sam swore weakly as he got up to his knees, then his feet. His first reaction was to run, but when he took his first bolting step his head nearly spun off and he stumbled and fell back against the wall of branches behind him and slipped back down to his ass. "Shit," he gulped in mouthfuls of damp, cold, smelly air, the hollowness around him entering into his gut and settling there like a heavy rock.

Up above him he heard movement. Fluttering and scratching. But of course, the place would be full of the little, hairy flying creatures known as bats. And where there were bats, there was bat guano, that could explain the smell. He'd go with that verses the other thoughts of dead big brother's and half-eaten hikers.

There was no telling how big this place was, but to Sam the darkness felt mammoth, an immeasurable cathedral full of tunnels and labyrinths. He'd have to feel his way out, and in the bad shape he knew he was in. That could take hours...if not days, if ever as he had no clue where he was. He only knew he had to move.

"Move. Now," he ordered himself, pushing back up to his feet.

He took a few calming breaths, and slowly started traipsing through pitch-blackness. It was unnerving. Who knew what edge he could fall off? Sam inched along the wall, his legs wobbly beneath him.

The stench was getting stronger and brought tears to his eyes and caused a fire to blaze in his gut. A thick blob of bile crept up his throat. Sam swallowed most of the sick back down, only a little bubble of fluid flowing out the corner of his mouth. He swiped his knuckles across his lips, refusing to let anymore vomit escape, and dragging in air through his nostrils.

He chanced moving away from the wall, bumping into something solid that jarred his head. He tried hard not to let out a groan but couldn't help himself. His eyes grew heavy and he struggled to keep them from closing, not that he could really tell in the darkness.

His senses suddenly heightened, and Sam froze, becoming immediately aware that something had changed. At first it wasn't something he could put his finger on. It was an internal eerie feeling. He felt empty and cold. Felt like eyes were staring straight through him. Bit-by-bit his visibility increased. The darkness screaming back to life, black mixed with blacker-black to create an oddly shaped faceless shadow. He stared down at the object he'd ran into just able to make it out in the dim-yellow glow of a flickering light. It was a vintage television set tipped over onto its side. Made out of solid wood, the thing must have weighted a ton, with square peg-legs and round channel knobs and a round, green-glassed screen. He leaned against the old relic dizzily, unused to seeing with his eyes he slammed them shut. The moment he did, something breezed past him, a puff of warm, musky air hitting his nostrils.

Sam remained silent, not daring to move just yet. Instinct telling him he needed to wait. He listened more intently, and then chanced opening his eyes. Squinting, he swung his gaze around. It was still too dark to see much more than shapes.

Sounds came to him like ghostly whispers in his ear, then grew louder. Someone was riffling through a closet or junk drawer, those big feet were back. Crunching over broken glass, then the kicking around of empty tin cans, then there was the unnerving sound of a grumbling, hungry belly.

Maybe the whole cannibalism thing wasn't such a bad theory after all.

"Who's there?" Sam called out wearily scrubbing a hand across his blurry eyes trying to see.

There came a quick _snapping_ sound followed by a soft _flick-__ flicking_ sound.

Sam listened more intently. The sound was completely familiar - flint hitting the striker of a Zippo.

In a fog of pain and fighting not to go under, Sam glanced around some more. Everything was a kaleidoscope of color. He rubbed his eyes harder. Little-by-little he was being pulled from the darkness, little by little his eyesight was restored to him and he realized what had brought the room a-glow. All around him sitting on over turned crates and resting along rocky ledges, old dressers, and a vintage radio were white candles of every shape and size. Crammed anywhere and everywhere there seemed to be an open spot, burning and dripping hot wax to create twisted art sculptures on the surfaces.

It took a few more waning minutes for Sam to adjust to the low lighting. As he looked all around, he saw that there were no windows, and the place was indeed spacious and echoey. There were large weathered tree trunks, their spreading branches and crinkled, dead leaves still dangling from spiny limbs, huge gray boulders, and smaller brown rocks, pieces of knotty paneling and sheets of aluminum lined along the walls. Everything was intricately woven and stacked together in a crude but sturdy and skillful way, all supporting the red-clay and crumbling cinder block Sam could see peeking through the construction. Toward the rear of the room sat a wheel barrel full of dirt, leaning nearby that, an axe, a pick and shovel, and hand saw.

As more dancing light filled the room Sam glanced up to see the bats he'd heard earlier. About fifteen to twenty of the little suckers hanging around. Not from stalactites, but from what he was certain to be gas and electrical and water lines, the kind found in the basement of an old house. The place was no cave.

'The farm house?' Sam mouthed silently.

_They'd checked the place thoroughly. _

Sam thought about the background check he'd done on the abandoned farm before they'd come out looking for 'who knew what.'

The house had been owned and lived in for well over forty years by a man named James Ford whose son reportedly died in the house during childbirth twenty years ago, and whose wife had accidently fallen down the staircase and broken her back years later. EMF readings of the farm house had indicated no ghostly activity. During a few interviews of the town's folk's he and Dean had found out Ford was a harmless recluse who only came into town for supplies once a month. His biggest crime was apparently scaring away nosey neighbors and menacing kids off his property with a broomstick. He'd died several years ago of a sudden heart attack leaving the house empty and in disrepair. Shortly after the disappearances started.

He and Dean done a complete search of the house. Finding no indication of foul play. How'd they miss what was obviously a secret hideout?

The flames danced sending moving shadows casting all about the shelter creating a spooky dream-like appearance.

With all the dried lumber and other crap, Sam briefly worried about the place burning down, but figured he had bigger problems at the moment as one of the shadows seemed to peel away from the wall, coming to life.

TBC

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	3. Goodwill Exploding

Beware Of The…

Chapter Three

_The flames danced sending moving shadows casting all about the shelter creating a spooky dream-like appearance._

_With all the dried lumber, Sam briefly worried about the place burning down, but figured he had bigger problems at the moment as one of the shadows seemed to peel away from the wall, coming to life._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

It was the giant man-child he'd ran into. _Of course it was. Who else had he expected? Halle Berry dressed in her skintight cat woman bodysuit? _

The guy was a beast. His height and weight alone spoke of a strength and hardness that could snap a neck with one hand. But his actions were very child-like, and there was a vulnerability and tenderness about him.

In the dim lighting the man's face showed up even more horribly distorted - wrinkled and pumpkin-like, his extra nose and eye unnerving. He lumbered awkwardly over to a large, overturned wooden crate and sat down, picking up a dirty-pink stuffed bunny from off the floor and cradling it gently in his huge arms as if it were a baby. He ducked his head, staring back at Sam, shy and fearful.

Sam wasn't getting out of here easily. He noted quickly the crate the giant man-child was situated on was set right in front of what appeared to be the only entrance and exit to the shelter. Sam's mind was still fuzzy, but he knew enough. He was in no shape to fight his way out and for some reason Sam didn't want to. This man-child needed his help. Needed saving… not hunting. He'd known that only a few short moments after happening across him the first time. Maybe he could communicate with him. That hadn't gone down too well when he'd given it a go before. Sam winced. remembering the feel of the tree stump when it met his head. But he would try again. What choice did he have?

Cautiously, Sam stayed his distance and slowly crouched down to eye-level, remaining on the balls of his feet and using the vintage television to support his back. Figuring the lower he was and smaller he looked the easier it would be to appear nonthreatening.

The man-child turned to the side, watching Sam suspiciously out of the corner of his left eye, but not making a move.

A firestorm was roaring through Sam's head, but he took in a deep breath and said softly, "My name is, Sam. Your name is…is…" Sam floundered searching through his broken head. He knew this. He vaguely recalled the man- child had spoken just before he decided to scoop him up and carry him off effortlessly as if he were Fay Wray. "is...is…Tony? No, no. Uh...Tommy? "'Eh...Timmy?"

Teddy sat very still, with a trembling finger he picked at a loose piece of string on one of the bunny's floppy ears.

Sam frowned consintrating harder. "No. Wait that's not…Teddy!" Sam spoke up in excitment as the name unexpectedly popped into his aching head. "Teddy right? Your name is Teddy." Sam smiled slightly knowing he was right.

Teddy perked up at the use of his name, but didn't say a word. Averting his eyes he clutched the floppy, battered bunny to his chest and stroked the dirty-pink fur ever-so-gently, using a feathery touch.

"You don't have to be afraid. I know everything is confusing." Sam remained still, and kept his voice soothing. "You're all alone." Sam made his educated guess, eyes shifting about to be sure. "That can really suck."

Teddy made a scared baby bird sound and put his face down into the Bunny as if to hide, yet kept his eyes peeled on Sam.

"It's okay," Sam said being sure to smile big, remaining very still. "I can help you."

Teddy's inflated lower lip quivered as he rocked slightly back and forth on the crate. His face wrinkling further in what Sam interrupted as genuine fear and confusion.

"I know how you feel," Sam mumbled, not knowing how he was going to gain this obviously skittish man's favorable trust in a short period of time. Not to mention removing him from what obviously was his home. "Wow."

He ran his eyes over the room, inspecting it more closely. Now that Sam's brain had a chance to catch up to what he was seeing he realized Teddy must have been pack-ratting for years. Everything from toys to knickknacks, old tires, and cardboard boxes holding stained clothing, greasy mechanical parts, a kitchen blender, dented pots and pans, and warped water damaged record albums were among some of the array of random that was strewn and stacked about.

"Looks like a Goodwill store exploded in here," Sam chuckled lightly, and then winced. "Speaking of exploding– "he held back the moan as his head felt like blasting right off his neck. "Wouldn't happen to have any Tylenol in this place would you?" Sam chuckled lightly, slipping down the rest of the way to the dirt, landing on his behind and leaning heavily against the large TV wearily. Felt like a battle axe was trying to split his melon open.

Teddy blinked all three eyes at Sam, looking utterly bewildered.

"I guess not." Sam blinked in return, trying to stay focused, but man, he was circling the drain.

Teddy brought the bunny up to rub it agaisnt his cheek. The giant man was so babylike. Who knew what he'd been through.

"World is so unfair," Sam agonized. "You're not a monster, but everyone will see you as one," he said, eyes tearing up he looked at the bunny in Teddy's hands. "What's his name?" he asked, gesturing to the ratty stuffed animal with his chin.

Teddy hugged the bunny fiercely. "Mine."

"I know it's yours. I won't take it from you," Sam said solemnly. Just want to know his name."

Teddy looked like he might start crying.

"Look." Sam pointed a finger to himself. "Sam." He pointed a finger at Teddy. "Teddy." He then pointed a finger at the bunny.

"Mine." Teddy made a loud gurgling sound in his throat.

"This is going to be harder than I thought," Sam mumbled.

Teddy set the floppy bunny in his lap and dug into the bib of his overalls, pulling out a lighter.

Sam's eyes widened. _His lighter_. Teddy was not only a hoarder but a klepto.

Teddy began to play with the lighter. Flicking the wheel, he sparked the flame to life, then flipping the top closed to put out the fire. He seemed entranced by the object as if it was a magic trick of some sort.

Sam pointed to the lighter. "Mine," he said.

Teddy put both hands over the lighter and held the Zippo possesively against his chest.

"Guess this isn't the time for lessons in stealing and sharing," Sam said scrubbing a hand over his eyes as he felt himself dropping back down into darkness.

Teddy went back to flicking the lighter.

"It's fun, huh," Sam said woozily, rolling his head side to side, desperate to keep awake.

Teddy looked up at Sam, the lines and loose skin on the man-child's face seemed to disappear, the corners of his twisted mouth drawing up into what appeared to be a smile. "Fun," he repeated.

Sam nodded happily. "My brother would say the same thing," he said wistfully. "He's made a career out of pyromania."

"Fun. Teddy, fun." Teddy continued to play with the Zippo. Flicking and flipping the lighter open and closed. The lighter's flame appeared and disappeared. Happy grunts turned into heavy, jolly bouts of gurgly laughter as he started to wave the lighter about in the air above his head creating blob-shaped shadows on the wall.

"Be careful with that," Sam snapped, listing sideways and noting the nearby stack of boxes filled with papers and magazines, and what looked to be a bed made of straw shoved against a far wall. Not to mention the tree branches and other flammable material that made up the walls and littered the floor.

Teddy suddenly seemed upset. As if he knew he was doing wrong. He slowly got up and shuffled his huge frame over to Sam. Bent down and offered up the lighter, tears threatening to spill.

"No. No," Sam slurred, staying very still. "You can keep it," he said.

Teddy continued to hold out the lighter, grunting and shoving the Zippo in Sam's face.

Sam tentatively reached out and clasped Teddy's hand, a hand that was three times the size of Sam's. "I mean it. Really. It's yours." Sam nodded and smiled up at the man-child and patted his hand hoping to gain more of his trust by forking over the Zippo.

Teddy seemed to understand. He straightened up, big happy feet stomping in the dirt, head held high, more sounds of happiness gurgling in the back of his throat as he proudly took his prize and went back to sit on the crate.

"Just don't catch anything in here on fire." Sam looked to the lit candles, the flickering warm glow causing him to fight to keep his eyes open. "Though I'm sure you've had plenty of practice in not doing just that… so far," he added unsurely.

While Teddy continued to be mesmerized by the Zippo, big clumsy fingers flicking the flame on and off again, Sam went back to studying Teddy. The big guy was easily amused and distracted by child's play. _Bingo!_ Sam knew he needed to escape, find Dean, and together maybe they could get Teddy the help he needed.

Distract and amuse. _What could be more fun than fire?_ He thought, still looking all around. There was nothing at his fingertips.

_Bingo again! _Sam sat up straight. _Fingertips. _He remembered how Dean used to distract him on late nights when their father was gone and Sam had woken with a particular bad dream with his famous 'shadow puppet, musical theater.' Dean would hum songs and create shapely shadows, bringing the characters to life with such panache. Sam would soon forget the horrible dreams, and curl sleepily against his big brother's warm chest.

_Damn his brother was such the showman. _Sam shook his head in fondly.

_Big mistake._ Unable to suppress his pain, he moaned loudly_. _

Startled, Teddy stopped flicking the lighter, frozen in obvious fear at Sam's outburst.

"Shhhh. Sorry, man," he mumbled softly. "Got to remember not to do that."

Teddy didn't seem to understand dropping the lighter to his lap and taking up his bunny once more clutching the fake animal to his chest.

"Look… look, Teddy," Sam said, raising his hands slowly. "Not an expert like my brother, but here goes…'eh everything."

Humming an out of tune version of Christopher Crosse's 'Sailing' – a song, that even sung harmoniously would make Dean's ears bleed – Sam began using both hands to create a shadow puppet of a rabbit. Wiggling his fingers he made the rabbit clean its face, twitch its ears and nose, then dance about along wall where a long piece of sheet metal had been placed.

Teddy couldn't sustain his happiness as he bounced up and down on the crate, laughing heartily.

The sparkle in the big giant's eyes and excitement in his laugh made Sam smile.

"You like that, huh?" Sam continued to hum, next creating a dog, and then a swan.

For the next half an hour or so, Sam created different shadows, ignoring his pain as he continued to befriend Teddy and entertain himself if he were being honest. His inner child was enjoying the moment as well until in a sudden flash the elephant shadow puppet he'd just made seemed to peel off the wall and trampled through his head causing a burst of pain – an eight, quickly increasing to ten.

"Ahhhhhhhhh! Crap," Sam cried out, his voice echoing and bouncing all around like a pinball machine gone mad. His hands fisted in his hair, and he jerked backward to escape the pain, head thumping against the TV behind him.

Teddy's laughter ceased abruptly, the bunny dropping to the ground with a soft plunk as he drew his hands up to his face to shield himself, staring at Sam with a gaping mouth and bewildered, frightened eyes – all three of them.

Sam folded his arms around himself and drew his knees up to his chest, balling himself up. "Sorry, sorry," he panted his entire body shuddering fighting not to fall back into the darkness of unconsciousness. "I'm –"he panted, "Dean," he choked on a whisper, slamming his eyes shut.

A croaking-squawk coming from Teddy brought Sam's eyes back open. Through the haze of his pain and tear-filled eyes he could practically see poor Teddy's heart trying to pound right out of his chest.

"Shhh. Shhh." Sam's fingers dug into his arms clutching himself closer. "Didn't mean to scare you," he said, wincing hard.

Teddy's distorted face became unreadable as he continued to sit and stare and whimper, nothing more than a muscular mass of scared child. He grunted, pointing to Sam then to the wall, then back at Sam obviously demanding more shadow puppets.

"Can't," Sam wheezed a small half-moan leaving his throat. "I can't."

Fat tears squeezed out of Teddy's eyes catching in the thick folds of his skin.

"S-sorry," Sam puffed on a breath.

Like a two-year old having a meltdown, or maybe more like a snorting bull shaking its angry head at the cowboy about to mount it, Teddy abruptly grabbed his bunny from off the ground and stood, kicking the crate he was sitting on away with his oversized boot.

The crate hit the wall with such force it broke into matchsticks.

Sam's heart froze. Teddy was huge and amazingly strong and royally pissed off.

While Teddy busied himself with his temper tantrum storming around the large room and smashing things about, Sam pushed his back against the TV and inched his way precariously to his feet.

_This wasn't the distraction he'd hope for, but it would have to do._

The room tilted up then thumped back down, repeatedly, like a teeter-totter gone ballistic. Only sheer desperation kept Sam vertical. He had to get out of here. Right now, Teddy was inconsolable and he was going to hurt someone–namely Sam. He'd find Dean and together they would come back to help Teddy.

As soundlessly as he could –which wasn't soundlessly at all as a cry of pain left his lips – Sam kept his sights locked on Teddy's turned back. Taking a few wobbly steps toward the exit/entrance of the shelter, he paused for breath and to make sure Teddy hadn't heard him, and then carefully made his way around the hordes of debris. Pressing his lips together Sam forced himself not to make another sound, though the pain in his head was bad and he was fading fast. The agony of his concussed head threatening to slip him back into darkness.

Teddy continued to have his fit, winging and whizzing boxes and knickknacks about like a human tornado.

Sam blinked rapidly to keep the sweat and blood that started to drip into his eyes away. As he neared the doorway he took his gaze off Teddy, focusing all his effort on his trembling legs, desperate to keep them moving, fighting to keep off his knees. Just as he neared the entrance he tripped over the rusted frame of a tireless red bicycle. Reaching out, Sam caught himself against the doorframe, realizing that everything had become deathly quiet.

Sam turned back. "Shit," he breathed out, realizing right off that his plan of escape had backfired.

Teddy's eyes were on him, boiling over in rage. His floppy bunny tucked up under his arm in a football carry.

"Teddy, relax, dude. Just come with me. I can help you. You'll be okay. Just come," Sam coaxed gently.

But Teddy wasn't listening. "Mine!" His anger escalating, he dropped his head and sped toward Sam, four-hundred pounds of angry-fast-feet and hulking body rushing Sam's way like the world's largest football player – ever.

Sam gasped in anticipation and forced himself not to flinch, bracing for the bone crushing tackle.

But there was no preparing. The pain was ferocious as Teddy rammed him, slamming Sam's back flat to the ground, knocking all the air out of him and roughly returning him to darkness again.

**TBC….**

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	4. Beware Of Me!

Beware Of The…

Chapter Four

_But Teddy wasn't listening. His anger escalating, he dropped his head and sped toward Sam, four-hundred pounds of angry-fast-feet and hulking body rushing Sam's way like the world's largest football player – ever._

_Sam gasped in anticipation and forced himself not to flinch, bracing for the bone crushing tackle._

_But there was no preparing. The pain was ferocious as Teddy rammed him, slamming Sam's back flat to the ground, knocking all the air out of him and roughly returning him to darkness again._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Dean had rechecked the interior of the three story farm house and found the same as before.

Nothing.

But they'd missed something here. He knew it. His wrenching gut and fisted hands and the weight of the universe resting on his chest told him that much.

Now he was outside. Moving along the back of the boarded up farm house, pushing aside the thick, overgrown ivy that clung heavily along fallen downspouts and what once was a picket fence; its white paint long gone as it slowly rotted away among the mint and wild rose bushes of the neglected garden.

The blood trail was gone now, and nothing made a sound. Everything was shadowy and misty and creepily still.

People went missing. People disappeared into dust and wind every day and all the time, but not Sam. Not his brother. No dammned friggin' way. Sam was here. Somewhere. He had to be.

Resisting the urge to call out his brother's name, Dean twisted on his heels in a slow moving circle, searching. Eyes going over the area again, like a fine-toothed comb searching for a single tiny flea on a big, hairy dog.

His eyes stopped on the large junk pile of scrap metal in the middle of the overgrown yard and he stared quizzically at the pile they'd already picked through, finding nothing. 'A piece of abstract modern art.' That's what Sam had called the mound that consisted of rusted awnings, piping, oil drums, pots, pans, a red runner sled, and the burnt out shell of two cars among other things.

A sickly feeling came over Dean, his wrenching gut beginning to sizzle. Why hadn't he noticed it before? The mound was a marker_. A marker for what? Graves_? Upon earlier inspection they'd found no blood. No body parts. Nothing peculiar. He fought not to vomit as he pictured Sam's stiff, broken body lying under the freaky sculpture in a puddle of blood, eyes staring but not seeing.

"No." Dean shook himself from the nightmare. "No, no, no."

He stuffed the bad dream back down where it belonged, and took off racing over to the junk pile. His second search more intense, he checked out every crack and crevice and inside every tin can, winging the empty containers one at a time out into the night. He dug and dug through the pile – a man on the edge of hell's inferno. He came upon the leftover shell of the '73' Duster. Remembering how he'd shook his head at her demise thinking if anyone could restore her to mint…he could. Staring at the passenger side's punched out window, snagged on a small piece of jagged glass were a few stringy threads blowing in the breeze.

Dean felt his insides scramble like a dozen raw eggs being smashed against a stone wall. He slowly reached over and picked the strands off, dangling them in the air before his eyes for closer inspection – army-olive green – a color he knew all too well.

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped, releasing the threads to the wind, seizing the door handle roughly and yanking hard. The door cracked open easily, hinges seemingly oiled, and only a few rust particles flaking to the ground. "Piece of abstract modern art, my ass," he growled deep in his throat.

They'd been duped. Tricked. They'd made a stupid mistake that could have or had already cost Sam his life.

Dean eyed what appeared to be an old foundation. The hollowed out frame of the car ingeniously had been covering up a huge hole in the ground, and a rickety wooden set of stairs leading downward into the dark. The blackness seemed to sneer at him informing him he better beware of whatever might be home.

"Screw that." Dean sneered back. "Beware of me," he growled; whipping out his Glock. Still armed with his flashlight and without another thought, Dean rushed down the staircase.

The steps beneath his feet were wet and moss covered and slick. They shook unstably with every movement, but Dean took them with stealth. There was no more time to waste. Hands brought together, wrists locked; he pointed both gun and flashlight into the darkness ahead of him.

Twenty-eight slipper steps later, Dean reached the bottom of the staircase. Momentarily disoriented, he directed light and weapon all around trying to make out the shapes in the dark. After a few seconds of rapid blinking, Dean realized he was standing in a long, narrow corridor. The floor was nothing more than damp dirt, the walls crudely lined with branches and sticks and stones supporting the disintegrating red clay and cinderblock on either side of him. He shined the light above him, expecting to see stalagmites or tites, whichever, knowing his baby brother would know the difference, but instead he found copper piping running along the ceiling, probably electrical or maybe gas lines from whatever old building once stood here. Place was like some sort of manmade cave. The air was stale with the faint scent of body odor and human waste and overcooked broccoli.

"Blach," Dean spat. "And who the hell lives down here?" he muttered under his breath as he headed down the only path in sight. As he moved along through the passageway Dean found more drops of blood dotting along the dirt. It unnerved him greatly. "Damn it, Sam," he hissed knowing his brother wouldn't just have handed himself over without a fight. Knowing he was hurt, and had been down here far too long. "Punxsutawney Phil, Big Foot, The Big Bad Wolf, The Three Little Pigs… whoever...whatever the hell you are –" Dean clamped his lips tight, the fear in his gut blazing like a zillion tiny needles tumbled around inside of him, stabbing every corner of his being and making him sick to his stomach. "So help me god, if…. if he's… if Sammy's de-" Dean shuddered hard not wanting to say the word. "You'll be going we-we-we all the way to the grave, bitch," Dean growled loudly not caring if the thing heard.

Shaking all thought from his head, Dean went back to being cool and professional for Sam's sake, gripping the flashlight and gun so tight his hands cramped up, he moved faster along reminding himself to stop and notch his path with his pocket knife, making it easier and faster to find his way out, never doubting he'd be making a quick escape, Sam in tow and alive.

No one took his brother from him! Whoever, whatever… was about to get their heart ripped out and toasted.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

It was a wet sounding sort of cough that brought up mucous and phlegm sprinkled along with a sizeable amount of pain that radiated through his chest and made Sam dizzy. He knew right off, he not only had a concussed head but now owned a chest full of broken ribs. Trying to breathe around his broken, jagged ribs was like trying to inhale cut glass and a breathy moan left Sam's lips. He strained to lift his chin off his chest. Damn he hurt. He peeled his eyes open. At first everything was one big blob, but he was quicker to analyze the situation upon this second return to consciousness.

He was in another section of the shelter, standing upright. His hands bound above him, chest being stretched and pulled to unbearable. Sam tilted his head lethargically back and stared upward. _Crap._ He nearly vomited seeing his wrists and forearms above him. Tangled in a jungle of frayed rope and chicken wire, his flesh looking like one of Dean's burgers of the week.

"Aw, gaw," he moaned, his neck muscles suddenly giving out and head feebly flopping back down, chin plopping to his chest. He stared at the toes of his boots. They were just barely brushing the ground. _Double crap._

There'd be no lock-picking his way out of this one.

Sam tried to move. Using his body weight he kicked outward, arching his back and pulling on his writs. The slightest undertaking sent the barbed metal digging further into his wrists, and warm, sticky blood dripping down his arms in rivulets.

Sam moaned loudly and twisted trying to escape the sharpness, but that just brought on a coughing spell causing his broken ribs to scrap against each other like carving knives.

Sam Slammed his eyes shut, hurting big-time.

Helpless and hapless were not the way of the Winchester. He wouldn't give up. Breathing shallowly, Sam opened his eyes and tried to balance on the tips of his boots, pushing upward to get some leverage. Desperate to take some of the pressure of the full-weight off his writs. But the action only succeeded in pulling on his broken ribs further and tearing at his flesh even more so. He bit down hard, his upper teeth digging deeply into his lower lip, drawing blood, shattering the scream that wanted to escape. The coppery tang flooded his mouth and coated his teeth and dripped down his chin. Sam spit and coughed again. All he could do was hang there breathing harshly, his entire body twitching with the strain. He swallowed drool and bitter bile trying not to be sick.

A herd of elephants stampeded inside his head, and sweat dripped off his forehead. One minute hot as a sauna, the next freezing-cold like a meat locker. It was hard to think, even harder not to pass out.

"Guh," Sam cried out from shock and pain.

Teddy was suddenly there. Standing in front of Sam, face-to-face, he raised a hand to gently pet Sam's hair as softly, if not softer than how Sam had seen him pet the dirty-pink bunny. When Teddy ran a thumb across Sam's neck, Sam grimaced, but didn't move. He'd been around enough evil long enough to know…Teddy wasn't evil. Even if he had strung Sam up like a side of beef. The giant man didn't know any better. He was only trying to keep Sam near him. He was a genuine big baby. A big baby, who didn't understand the world he had been born into. Certainly didn't understand his own strength. Worse, Sam knew, the world didn't understand Teddy back.

"Nice, make nice," Teddy uttered as he stroked the sides of Sam's cheeks, following the grain of his growth of whiskers giving Sam more of a heads-up on how long he'd actually been hold up here.

"Yes. Make nice, "Sam repeated softly.

Teddy may not have looked human and he obviously lacked normal human skills, but he was human and human's instinctually craved the attention of other humans.

But Teddy's attentions were making Sam uneasy, part of him wanted to kick out with his feet. The hunter in him needing to get away from Teddy and break free, but Sam held that need in check.

"Easy. Easy now, Teddy," he gulped for air like a dying fish. "Listen. Listen." Sam started humming 'Sailing' again, though this version was strained and more off-key than normal. "Teddy," he said, barely in a whisper. "Please. What if you untied me, let me down and you and I can…we can…be friends again. Go for ice cream," Sam enticed.

Teddy seemed near catatonic and did not respond other than to continue to worship Sam's face and hair. As inhuman as Teddy's outward appearance was, inside he was still human. A human who Sam was certain never had seen a classroom or a doctor or a grocery store, gone to a movie or anything a normal kid would do. His parents gone, it appeared that Teddy had been left to continue doing what he was taught to do. Hide in the shadows.

"Can you let me down?" Sam nearly begged, his hands above him quaking and cold from lack of circulation. "I can," he licked his cracked, swollen lips and swallowed, "Let me… help you," Sam garbled. "I…I can help you be happy…be safe."

Teddy's face was shadow cast, eyes on Sam, confusion scrunching between his brows.

"Friends," Sam chanted. "We're friends."

At the word friends, Teddy slowly reached up toward Sam's bloody wrists, but then swiftly brought them back down lacing them together in front of him as if he were about to pray. He cooed and gurgled painfully trying to articulate. Teddy's eyes big, hot tears pouring from them.

"I don't understand you," Sam said, a black dagger driving through his heart. "Sorry, man. I'm so sorry for what you've had to live with," he muttered, shaking his head. "I understand not being normal. Understand what it feels like not to have friends," he inhaled, trying to hold back his pain, emotional and physical. "To have to duck and hide and run and to be left alone night after night with no one –"A shiver racked Sam's body as the black dagger twisted and plunged through his chest. He gasped, writhing, his cold fingers furling and unfurling as he tried not to move, boot tips pressing to the ground stretching his body further. Sam's eyes fluttered but he tightened his muscles and pressed his lips thin, fighting for consciousness, he breathed deeply through his nose. "I know…I know what it's like, Teddy," he slurred. "No one there with a hello, or a smile, or a hug when you are too…too afraid to fall asleep."

Teddy's case was the extreme version of his life and that broke Sam's super sensitive heart.

"Do you understand anything that I'm saying to you?" Sam asked, still breathing heavily in and out his nostrils.

Teddy watched Sam closely as if he were taking in information, then all three of his eyes flicked over to a far-off corner of the room.

"What? What is it?" Sam peered over. The glow of the candle light barely was making it into the corner. Sam stared bewildered for a long minute at a rather large pile of twisted up, dirty laundry stuffed behind broken chunks of concrete and rusted, greasy car parts.

A cold wind blew down from somewhere bringing with it that same foul smell from before.

After another moment, Sam gagged and his arms began trembling and his body sagged.

It wasn't dirty laundry he was seeing. Was a pile of decomposing bodies, squashed arms and feet sticking out of bloody shirt sleeves and pant legs.

Sam's mouth gaped open and a small puff of air left him. He narrowed his eyes. Among the human remains were dead rats, cats, rabbits...and was that a dog? Thank heavens he didn't catch sight of a tan, leather jacket or work boots.

"You've already tried to make friends." He shivered still staring at the pile of flesh and fur and bone. "Oh, God," he called out sharply.

Startled, Teddy quaked, his eyes wide with fear, darting between the bodies and Sam, looking much like a dog who knew he'd done something bad, yet begging forgiveness.

"I know you were looking for a friend," Sam muttered more to himself, seeing the point-blank fear in Teddy's disfigured face. "They were accidents. I know you didn't mean to hurt –"Sam bit down on his tongue remembering how that particular word had set Teddy off earlier landing him here in the homemade shelter in the first damn place. "Uh-oh."

_Crap! He'd messed up again._

"No hurt!" Teddy unclasped his praying hands and swiftly reached out wrapping meaty fingers around Sam's neck. "No hurt," he repeated, slowly applying pressure.

"Ted –" Sam's eyes moistened with tears and his chest locked up as he started to choke. "You're hurting," he gasped. "Le' go. Plea… need you to –"

Teddy tightened his hold squeezing Sam's neck and cutting off his words. He circled around Sam, a sort of ring-around-the-Sammy game, twirling Sam with him, turning him around and around, the jungle of wire digging deeper into Sam's cowhide-for-wrists and tangling him further never releasing his chokehold.

Sam gagged, his entire body going ramrod straight.

Teddy pulled his hands away from Sam's neck, and Sam gasped for air, but just as quickly Teddy's hands returned. Stronger this time, fingers digging deep. "Make fun," Teddy said a smile on his face as he watched Sam's shadow bob about on the wall.

Sam's eyes slid over to the watch his shadow as it danced about, realizing what Teddy wanted. "Can't." Sam struggled to breathe. "I can't," he gulped in fear knowing Teddy could, and probably would crush his trachea.

Teddy continued to squeeze and compress.

Sam's body responded involuntarily. Fear taking hold, his flight instinct kicking into overdrive as he knew he was next to be thrown into that pile of rotting corpses. Sam's legs and stretched out arms and fingers twitched as if he were having a mini seizure, small squeaks and peeps leaving his slightly parted lips.

'Stop.' Sam could only mouth, his vision blurring and eyes fluttering as the lack of oxygen sent a tingling sensation through his body, his mind becoming confused.

"Fun," Teddy chuckled childishly.

Saliva dripped out the corner of Sam's mouth, and in that split second just before unconsciousness he swore he heard someone scream his name, but the voice quickly vanished as his eyes rolled up and he went utterly limp.

TBC

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	5. Eat Me!

Beware Of The…

Chapter five

_'Stop.' Sam could only mouth, his vision blurring and eyes fluttering as the lack of oxygen sent a tingling sensation through his body, his mind becoming confused._

_"Fun," Teddy chuckled childishly._

_Saliva dripped out the corner of Sam's mouth, and in that split second just before unconsciousness he swore he heard someone scream his name, but the voice quickly vanished as his eyes rolled up and he went utterly limp._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"Sam!" A voice shouted. "Noooooo!" Heavy boots skidded to a halt behind Teddy, and then there came a loud boom that shook the walls and sent dust and dirt raining down like fine ash.

Teddy had heard loud booms like that before when he and Dada were making his special place. Those kind of big booms didn't scare him. He briefly glanced over his shoulder to see an Outsider step into the yellowish glow of light. The Outsider looked ragged and scruffy, dressed sort of like his plaything.

"Get the hell away from my brother!"

Teddy knew right away this Outsider was nothing like his plaything. This Outsider stood straight and tall, his voice rough and harsh, and he looked way bigger to Teddy.

"Let go of him!" The Outsider glided a step sideways. He glared at Teddy like an angry dog. In his hand he gripped a familar metal object and pointed it toward the ceiling. It was the same kind of metal object his plaything had had in his hand. Teddy didn't like the metal object and had hidden it at the bottom of a box. He liked this metal object even less. It looked even bigger. "I said let go!" The Outsider brought the metal thing down and pointed it at Teddy.

Instinct told Teddy to run, but he was all mixed up. Paralyzed with fear, overcome with frustration, infuriated with anger. He let lose his plaything's throat and croweded in closer, instead holding his plaything by the shoulders and banging his head against his plaything's forehead several times desperate to get his plaything to open his eyes.

His plaything jerked away and made a horrible noise, but didn't open his eyes.

"Sammy!"

"Mine," Teddy whimpered like a child, so badly wanting his plaything to look at him, to make the bunny on the wall come to life again. To make Teddy happy. Teddy touched his plaything's cheek tenderly and gave a gurgly laugh.

"Wrong! Mine!" The Outsider burst out as another big boom ricocheted off the walls.

This time nothing rained down from the ceiling. This time Teddy felt something sting the back of one of his legs. He rocked slightly sideways, his overly huge lower lip trembling as he looked back at the Outsider and wrapping a hand back around his plaything's throat, once again squeezing and refusing to let go.

His plaything went rigid, legs kicking outward.

"Oh, you son-of-a-bitch." The Outsider shifted from foot to foot."I will chop you down one bullet at a time." The Outsider growled. "You can't guard him forever, Kong."

"Fun. Fun," Teddy mumbled, now ignoring the Outsider and gripping his plaything's neck harder and shaking. He had to make his plaything understand. He never wanted to hurt. He wasn't allowed to hurt. Dada had taught him that.

His plaything gave a strangled squeak.

"Sammy, hold on!" The Outsider boomed like a boiling-black thundercloud, sharp and crackling like lightning.

Teddy was afraid of storms. The sting in his leg grew to burning. He started to shiver and let go of his plaything's neck.

His plaything's head head drifted off to one side.

_His plaything was broken. His best and most favorite plaything ever. Broken. Just like all the others. Only he had not done the breaking. This Outsider had by trying to take away his plaything from him._

Teddy lost all control and let out a savage, carnal scream. Whirling around, he remained in front of his plaything, hulking body blocking and protecting him. "Mine." He snarled viscously at the Outsider, fists clenched at his sides.

"You're kidding me, right?"

The Outsider's forehead was wrinkled, deep lines crossing his forehead, his eyes squinty, staring right into Teddy's – point blank. It was the way his Dada would often times look at Teddy when Teddy didn't move to do something fast enough or had done something that made Dada mad. When Dada yelled like that, Teddy would go sit and rock in a corner, but Teddy didn't care about this Outsider. He only cared about his plaything. This Outsider wanted to take his plaything away from him. Maybe this Outsider was the one who took his Dada away from him.

"Now that I have your attention and can look you in the eye," The Outsider shook his head, "Okay, your three eyes. Don't think I'm not afraid to splatter your brains all over my brother's face. Out of the way, out of the way," the Outsider mumbled, pointing the metal thing all around at Teddy.

Teddy puffed up his chest trying to look as big as the Outsider as he defiantely pressed up closer to his Plaything.

"Damn it! Get away from him." The Outsider roared, thumping a hard hand to his chest. "Come on! Eat me!"

Teddy sensed danger, but despite his fear he turned back toward his plaything, cupping his chin and pulling the sagging head up. He held the wobbly head there, sandwiched between his large hands, screaming and grunting into his plaything's face. He had to fix him. The way Dada and he would fix things.

"Ghaaaaa." His plaything twisted away, his whole body a quivering mass.

"That's it! You are not touching him again!" Instantly there came another loud boom.

In utter surprise Teddy found himself sitting on the dirt floor, looking up at his plaything whose chin had dropped back to his chest, once again unmoving.

"Your little Halloween show is over, pug noses'."

Teddy was scared. All he knew was his plaything had told him it was all okay. Like his Dada always used to say. He made Teddy feel good inside. No one was taking his plaything away from him.

Suddenly Teddy became aware of another burning sensation that started in his shoulder and spread down his arm. Teddy glanced over to the spot where the pain was the worst. He clutched at his shoulder.

Teddy never felt pain like that before. It was red-hot, worse than when he'd singe himself sometimes when trying to make light. Everything was going on around Teddy too fast, too much confusion, too much dizzy. He didn't like the warm, drippy, messy red stuff oozing through his fingers. The sight of it made his stomach flop. He staggered to his feet as there came a pounding in his chest and more burning in his leg and a cloudy fog formed before his eyes.

"After the bleeding-out stage comes the gutting-out stage." The Outsider moved in closer, drawing a long slender shiny object with his other hand and waving it about dangerously, while aiming the metal thing dead center at Teddy's chest.

Teddy shook his head…what was happening? He backpedaled away from the Outsider, tripping over himself and did the only thing he could do. He ran away, stiff leggedly and crying.

_Hide. He had to hide in the shadows._

TBC…

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	6. Prince of Patchouli

Beware Of The…

"_After the bleeding out stage comes the gutting stage." The Outsider moved in closer, drawing a long slender shiny object with his other hand and waving it about dangerously._

_Teddy shook his head…what was happening? He backpedaled away from the Outsider, tripping over his own feet then ran away, disappearing into the shadows._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"Sam!" The voice in the dark sounded delighted, but only served to startle Sam.

Sam rasped, semi-with it, twisting against his restraints.

Soft fingers felt along his throat, testing here and there. "You're breathing. It's okay. You can breathe." The fingers continued to press along his collar bone. "Nothing broken here, dude, just bruised."

Sam reluctantly opened his eyes. His head was pounding and he was so dizzy and nauseous.

"Man, it's good to see you. "A pair of ice-cold trembling hands gripped the side of his face and held his head up. "The way Hercules was going at you, I thought…never mind that now."

Sam stared blankly, looking at the big bouncing blob before him.

"Sammy? You hearing me?" The ice cold hands pressed against his cheeks and gave a little squeeze. "Come on, pal, turn the lights back on for me."

Sam jerked and pulled away. Completely disoriented and wiggling about painfully like a fly caught in a spider's web, dangling from one silken thread.

"Hey, hey, I got you. I got you." The hands unzipped his jacket and patted down his body then back up again. "Crap," the voice quivered. "You earned yourself at least three broken ribs that I can tell." One of the ice-cold hands past over his brow. "Probably a concussion too."

Sam gave a wild cry of pain reflexively jerking his head backward, mustering his strength. His legs scrambled and he tried to kick outward, right away connecting with something soft and sending whoever had been feeling him up staggering away.

"Son-of-a...balls!" A voice spat, followed by loud moans and groans and the shuffling dance of booted feet. "Nice shot, bitch."

Sam continued to jerk and pull at his bindings, kicking his feet in a frenzied manner. Escape. He had to escape. It was all that filled his confused mind. Sam's body spun about with the force of his movements, the action stealing his breath and sending hellfire shooting through his every muscle.

"Dude, that's enough." The voice was back, hands too. Fingers gnarled in his damp shirt stopping his body from spinning. "It's gone, okay, freak show's gone. "Just hold still. Will you?"

Shaky hands reached up to his wrists and Sam felt sharp metal brush dangerously close to his skin. Something was different. Very different. Sam swung his gaze around, his breathing going harsh. He watched a fuzzy shadow cruise along the wall growing and shrinking and rustling about. His body limp with fatigue, Sam wanted to pass out, but kept his eyes open trying to catch his breath.

"Hang on a second," the voice sounded shaky. "Don't move, bro. Jus… just uh...uh…just don't move."

Razor sharp points dug into Sam's writs as he did just that, watching a familiar smoky-gray shadow kneel down over a bag on the ground at his feet.

"Dean?" Sam grunted, staring down at his brother who was crouched next to his weapon's bag at his feet.

"You bet your last dollar," Dean said quick and to the point, not bothering to look up as he continued to rifle through his supplies. "Shit. Where the hell is it?" he muttered through gritted teeth.

Sam frowned as his brain kicked into low gear. "Where is he?" he coughed raggedly.

"He's gone, okay? Big-ass whatever is gone," Dean said sympathetically. "For now," he added.

Sam blinked repeatedly. "Teddy," he slurred.

"What?" Dean shot Sam a shocked look.

"His name's Teddy," Sam muttered.

"You friggin' named the Bigfoot that brother-napped you after a cuddly bear?"

"He's no bigfoot, Dean."

"You named the elusive primate that brother-napped you after a cuddly Bear?" Dean rephrased sarcatically.

"I didn't name him, Jerk."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean's face looked ghastly pale in the dim yellow light as he took in Sam's appearance.

"You…you okay?" Sam whispered in a shaky and weak voice.

"Yeah, pal, I'm good, but you're a friggin' mess," Dean said almost angry.

Sam nodded his agreement.

"Give me the rundown, bro," he said going back to digging through the bag.

Sam cleared his throat. "He didn't want to hurt me."

This time Dean shot Sam a murderous look. "He damn near tore your head off, Sammy."

"Dean, he could have broken my neck if he wanted to, but he didn't. It's just sore."

"Homo Erectus cold-cocked you and drug your ass down into his oversized doghouse. You have three broken ribs that I can tell and most likely a concussion. Not to mention he strung you up like a damn cat toy. You're lucky to be alive, and not rotting away in that pile of Thanksgiving Day leftovers." Dean gestured toward the rotting corpses in the corner.

"Dean." Sam took in a sharp breath. "No. It's not like that, and he's not prehistoric. He's...he's a human being like you and me."

"Yeah, well, tell me about what it's like later. Right now I need to find…friggin' finally," Dean grouched coming up to his feet. "Was afraid we didn't have this baby." Dean waved a pair of black-grip wire cutters in front of Sam's face, and clambered up onto on an outcropping of stacked rocks. Stretching nearly on tiptoe and doing a balancing act he started to cut away at Sam's bindings. "Hang in there, dude."

"Not funny, Dean," Sam coughed, his body shaking from the strain

"Wasn't meant to be, bro."

"Wh-what are you doing?" Sam asked breathlessly, his head a topsy-turvy, spinning mess.

"Cutting you free, idiot, what do you think?"

Sam flinched and mumbled something inaudible under his breath, his whole body going limp with all his weight on his wrists, head bobbing.

"Attention!" Dean blurted out military-style.

Sam's head shot back up on alert. "Huh?"

"Sam. Attention," Dean softened as his fingers scrabbled to free his brother.

"I hurt," Sam whispered.

"I know you do, buddy." Dean's brow creased. "This is going to take a minute. You're pretty tangled up in this crap. Got to get this shit off you. Not going to feel good, pal."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence only the drip, drip of water and Sam's exhausted breathing.

Dean glanced at his brother.

Sam made a face, blinking to keep conscious.

"Talk to me, Sammy. How'd he get the jump on you anyway?" Dean asked trying to distract.

"Tried to handcuff him and he freaked out," Sam panted, allowing the distraction.

"You what?" Dean nearly shouted, absently pulling too hard on the wires and thick rope tangled around Sam's wrists. "Why the hell didn't you just shoot the sideshow?"

"Dean. Wait." Sam took in breath after breath feeling fresh blood seeping down his arms.

"Sorry. Sh. Sh." Dean soothed, quieting his voice and gentling his touch.

Sam gained control of his pain, though his breathing was still ragged.

"Sammy. What were you thinking?" Dean clipped wire after wire, thread after thread, with trembling fingers trying not to pull Sam's skin along with it.

"Was thinking…."Sam bit into his lower lip, his eyes shifting up to his bound hands. The flesh was bloody and looked like chewing gum, making him feel sicker, and he gagged.

"Hey." Dean gripped Sam's chin and brought his eyes to meet his. "Don't want you to look at that."

Sam hissed, but did as he was told and looked away at their shadows moving along on the wall trying not to get sick.

"So, again I ask, Sam…what were you thinking? Why didn't you just shoot?"

"Was thinking…thinking he's a human being, Dean," Sam huffed, his body going stiff. "Not some big, bad, hairy…"

"…Neanderthal," Dean offered to fill in, reaching up higher, his own fingers bleeding and mixing with Sam's blood as he feverishly worked the metal and twin combined web Sam was caught in. "Sammy, this guy has some serious issues." Dean gave the room a quick once over. "Housekeeping is one of them. This place is so not Martha Stewart friendly. Human or half-human… I don't care… a monster's a monster."

"He needs our help. Doesn't know what he's doing. He has feelings too. He's all alone and scared," Sam said desperately. "He didn't intentionally want to hurt me. Or them," Sam said, eyeing the corner of the room.

"Well, he killed them and hurt you." Dean paused a moment to ran a critical eye up and down Sam's body. "Mike Tyson's punching bag looks in better shape then you."

"Dean –"

"Don't 'Dean' me, Sammy," Dean growled. "Freak squirrel-stashed you down here and you're going to defend him?" Dean growled louder going back to snipping wire.

"Teddy needs our help," Sam repeated.

"Teddy," Dean rolled his eyes, "Is not some kid tongue-sucking a frozen flagpole, Sam!" he barked. "He's dangerous and I'm going to mount and stuff that sucker."

"No. Dean, no! Promise me you won't hurt him."

"Too late. No can do, little brother, "Dean said firmly.

"What? What do you mean?" Sam's voice raised an octave.

"Already put one bullet in sideshow's shoulder and one in his leg and if he wasn't standing so damn close to you I would have put one between his third eye." Dean clipped a few more wires, wincing at the mutilated flesh of his brother's wrists.

"What! No! Where is he?" Sam choked, eyes darting around, tugging at his writs, making a noble effort not to cry out in pain, but unable to.

"Damn it, Sam! Dean berated, clasping Sam's shoulders and holding him still. "Just friggin' stay calm and still, Home Alone was okay enough to high-tail it."

Sam slammed his eyes shut. He was wet. He was cold. He was hungry. He hurt. But, in spite of his discomfort, he was worried about Teddy. "Promise me you won't kill Teddy, Dean," Sam begged.

Dean would have rather shoved a steel, double-edged blade through his very own heart then see his brother in pain. Physical or mental. "I won't kill him," Dean grouched bitchily.

"No. Promise," Sam muttered, squeezing his eyes tighter.

"I friggin' said I won't, Sam, so I won't!" He clipped more wires. "Ready there, cowboy?" Dean asked, softening his tone, knowing a few more snips would set his brother free feeling happy and sad about that.

Sam opened his eyes and stared back at Dean. "Say the word, Dean," he boldly insisted.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Promise," he huffed, then with a tip of his chin indicated toward the ground. "I'm Batman, bro, but I'm still not going to be fast enough to catch you before you hit the ground, so brace yourself, buddy and try to land on your feet."

A small nod of Sam's head was answer enough as Dean cut the last of the wire.

Sam landed awkward and per Dean's request unsteady on his feet, but he didn't stop there as everything inside him had been sapped and he dropped – unprotected – with a heavy _thud_ to the dirt floor. Air whooshed out of his lungs and a bubbling cry escaped his lips as he hugged himself tight, laying on his side stunned and tremblingly weak.

"Sam!" Dean jumped down off the stone he'd been perched on like a stepladder, swiftly tossing his wire cutters into the weapon's bag and bending over Sam. "Easy." He laid a hand to his brother's shoulder, at first not wanting to touch the hurting kid too much.

"Ow," Sam uttered beneath his breath.

"That about sums it all up, huh, little brother," Dean said, his hand moving off Sam's shoulder probing gently along his right side, then his left seeing if any more damage had been made.

"Son of a bitch," Sam's teary eyes widened and he flinched away from the touch with what little strength he had. "Don't touch me, Dean," he grunted angrily. "They're still broken, okay?"

Dean quickly drew his hand away, trying to hide his smile.

"What's so…what's so funny," Sam bit out, his tense shoulders sagging as he rolled slowly onto his back staring up at Dean.

"Been trying to teach you those words for ten years, dude." Dean let out a small chuff, swiping a strand of Sam's hair away from the dried, bloody cut on his forehead and frowning.

The light touch was full of care, but made Sam hiss.

Dean's eyes traveled down to Sam's writs. The raised flesh was meaty and chunky and grossly black and blue and worse bleeding like a sieve. "I have to at least wrap these," Dean informed, reaching to drag his duffel over and pulling out a white roll.

Sam closed his eyes. "You want to order pizza too?"

"And beer," Dean offered, doing a half-assed wrap job on both Sam's wrist with some flimsy gauze.

Dean sat back staring down at his brother. Moving Sam would be dangerous. He could puncture a lung surprised the kid didn't have one already with all the rough housing this Teddy character was doing to him. Maybe he truly didn't mean to. Dean knew evil with just one look and he could tell the big man with the troll-like face wasn't evil. Probably why he didn't put a bullet in the guy's fugly head right off. Still, the man was dangerous and uncontrollable and strong and had to be dealt with the Winchester way. Promise or not.

"Ready?" Dean asked doubtfully.

"Let's go," Sam said struggling with great effort to sit half-way up. "We have to find him."

"Damn straight we do." The words bubbled in Dean's throat like molten lava as he gingerly wrapped an arm around Sam's waist and lifted.

"Dean." Sam struggled up and stood a moment swaying.

"Sam. I want you safe. Now!" Dean hooked Sam to his side. "We'll worry about P.T. Barnum's number one ticket seller later."

"He is not a freak, Dean." Sam's words bubbled in his throat, flashing Dean a heated glare.

"Okay. Okay," Dean placated. "Fine, whatever," he whispered. "Just hold steady and take a minute to catch your balance and your breath. We can't help Teddy with you knocked out cold."

Sam looked nervously about, obviously leaning into Dean for support, his legs wobbly as freshly made lime Jell-O and his arms twitching from lack of circulation.

"Where's your duffel and your gun in all this mess?" Dean asked, gaze roaming.

"Don't know. He cleaned me out."

"Yeah, well no time to look for it, bro, this is some sort of elaborate Home Depot project," Dean deadpanned, voice echoing off the walls as he bent down slightly snagging the straps of his duffle and flinging it over his shoulder. "Here." Dean one handedly dug around inside. "Flashlight." He pressed it into Sam's hands. "Think you can handle that? Gets darker up ahead."

Sam nodded, wrapping a shaky hand around the casing and pointing the light ahead of them down a long tunnel.

Juggling Sam, Dean reached behind him pulling his gun from the back of his waist band where he'd stuffed it earlier as he worked at cuting Sam down.

Sam panted, eyeballing the gun.

Dean sighed. "Just in case," he said a sad edge to his tone.

Sam nodded, but said nothing.

"Think you can walk?" Dean asked doubtfully.

Sam responded with slow moving shuffles, breathing heavily seemingly slipping into a daze, legs going one way, body shifting another.

"This way, buddy." Still gripping Sam tightly, Dean headed them down the narrow corridor. "We're under the ground. " he explained as the shuffled along.

"The farm house," Sam said.

"Close. Under the quote unquote, modern art sculpture. Some sort of old foundation turned into a freak…I mean man cave."

"Hmmmm," Sam mumbled trying to keep up.

"I blazed us a trail so watch out for my scratch marks." Dean shrugged his duffle higher up on his shoulder with a grunt and started rambling, needing to keep Sam awake. "Place is like an underground state highway without the mile markers. Heavy construction like this would take ten years," he continued on as if talking to himself. "Found a box full of quarter sticks of dynamite. Can't just dig a hole, man, got to watch you don't collapse the bitch; leave plenty of pillars for support. Then there was all the loose dirt he had to carry out," Dean chuffed. "Personally…I'd have rented a backhoe got the job done in five."

Sam tilted further against Dean to keep from falling to the ground. Dean's voice was drumming in his ears and the unnatural pain in his chest made him breathe heavily.

"I got you, Sammy. Just keep with me." Dean edged them around a rocky pillar instinctually assuming something lay in wait, he held Sam slightly back, stepping around first with gun held out in front of him.

"Dean," Sam warned.

"Not going to let him hurt you again." Dean's entire body tensed.

"He didn't want to hurt me," Sam defended.

They rounded the corner finding nothing. Still in the clear. "Well, he did!" Dean barked, bringing Sam back up to him as they continued to move through tunnel after tunnel following the knife marks he'd scratched along the walls. "Friggin' Sloth."

"Sloth?" Sam questioned.

"The Goonies," Dean drawled out in annoyance. "Only this Sloth wasn't chained up to a wall or a chair."

"I think he was chained up, Dean. He had me chained to a stake off in some other room. I think his family, most likely his dad kept him hidden."

"Doesn't matter," Dean replied dryly. "He isn't a sweet gentle, practically hairless gentle giant that eats Baby Ruth candy bars, Sam," Dean said irately, eyeing Sam who barely could keep on his feet even with Dean's help. "This Sloth needs a shave and a haircut and a bath and he steals little brother's and hangs them up to dry. Judging by that pile of corpses back there," Dean waved his gun in the air. "Pooh Bear eats whenever he gets a rumbly in his tumbly," he thundered crossly.

"Teddy," Sam corrected "And I told you, Dean. He didn't mean to hurt anyone. He was trying to make friends. He's lonely." Sam shook his head sadly. "Doesn't know any better, and he's no cannibal." Sam pointed to a scratch mark on the wall. "Go that way."

Dean inched them around an old-time ring washer. "May not be a cannibal but he's one hell of a hoarder."

"He's just a child inside," Sam continued. "A giant- child hidden away by his parents, sheltered from society," he said with urgency, trying to get Dean to grasp the idea knowing Bigfoot made more sense to his pissed off brother right now. "W-what kind of life do you think the poor kid must have had," he muttered.

Dean glanced over at Sam, noting his brother's sad-puppy expression as he absorbed the information. "Dude!" he scolded. "Sloth does not love Chunk. Sloth wants to eat Chunk and spit out Chunk's bones, and in this case 'Chunk'," he poked Sam with the butt of his gun, "Is you, buddy boy." Dean spurred them along faster at that statement following one of his marks that pointed them down a gently sloping ramp then up an incline.

"That's the trouble, Dean. No one would understand him. Why do you think he was kept hidden all these years?"

"I don't know, Sam, why don't you Google it?" Dean snapped, sarcastically.

"Laptop, crappy motel room, thirty miles back," Sam gave a coughing bark, holding the side of his rib cage. "Damn it," he bit out valiantly trying to keep up with Dean as they raced at a snail's pace out of the shelter.

Dean, more worried about getting them the hell out of here and tending to Sam's injuries pushed his brother harder.

For a while they were quiet. Twisting and turning and hurrying along the carved-out hard packed dirt paths and random junk, Dean holding on tightly to Sam as he headed him back the way he'd come.

Sam's whole body shook and quivered weakening more and more with each step. Just how did Sam think he was going to help Teddy? Reconstructive surgery was probably out of the question. He was only borderline human. Dean was right about that, but still…Teddy obviously had a heart. He cried real tears. He felt feelings the way humans do. But he'd killed all those people. How could Sam overlook that? In the real world he'd be put to death for that. In the real world he wouldn't be able to function. He'd become nothing more than a circus show act or worse some sort of lab doctor's science project.

"Sammy?" Dean called out, not slowing their pace.

"Still here." Sam struggled painfully; barely able to keep up the pace Dean had set.

"Right." Dean snorted. "Stop burning up all your energy with thinking and do more walking," Dean scolded, getting angrier and angrier at what the son of a bitch did and almost did to his brother.

Sam lifted his head and shot Dean a questioning look. "I wasn't –"

"Just shut up and keep moving, got to get you out of here before Halloween-Show shows back up."

"Dean, told you, man, he means no harm."

"He's not your pet or your friend, Sam," Dean seethed. "He hurt you…would have killed you. The next time I see Tons-of-fun, I'm putting a bullet dead center of his third eye."

"No!" Sam shouted out in horror, as he pulled up short and fought to break away from Dean. "You promise–ahhh!" Sam nearly doubled over.

"Sam!" Dean jerked his brother back, reshifting the boy's weight against him. "Are you crazy?"

They stood still a moment, getting into a staring contest. A battle of wills. Who was right and who was wrong.

Dean was on this like ants on a cupcake. His gaze heated and charged.

Fighting to stand on trembling legs, Sam shot Dean his best pleading-puppy-dog stare.

"Don't," Dean growled.

Sam's eyes teared up.

"Dude, stop it."

Sam cocked his head slightly off to one side.

"No," Dean snapped. "He's toast!"

Sam blinked, his face smoothing and softening further.

Dean sighed in exasperation "Fine, bitch." He hiked Sam close and got them moving again cautiously down the long corridor that would lead them out. "Have it your way. But so help… me –"Something made Dean stop midstride.

"Dean? What?"

"Shh."

Both men focused on the darkness up ahead, listening intently.

Squawking sounds and scratching.

Dean raised his gun, pointing the muzzle in the direction of the noise.

Sam grabbed hold of Dean's arm, fingers clutching at the fabric of his jacket.

The sounds faded away and Dean lowered his weapon.

Sam sighed in relief.

"Place is probably not only a hideout for the Prince of Patchouli but a hotel for every woodland creature out there." Dean sniffed, wrinkling his nose. "What is that smell?"

Sam nodded. "Bats and rats for sure," he confirmed also sniffing the air, his fingers digging further into Dean's arm. "That's…that's…that's…"

The two locked eyes with each other, and then slowly they glanced up at the old piping above their heads. "Gas," they said in unison.

TBC...

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	7. Bang, Zoom Straight To The Moon!

Beware Of The

_Sam nodded. "Bats and rats for sure," he confirmed also sniffing the air, his fingers digging further into Dean's arm. "That's…that's…that's…"_

_The two locked eyes with each other, and then slowly they glanced up at the old piping above their heads. "Gas," they said in unison._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Sam staggered, his knees dipping. "We have to get Teddy out of here."

"Stay up, buddy," Dean held onto Sam and moved him forward. "We have to get ourselves out of here."

"Dean, this place is a ticking time bomb." Sam coughed heavily, his feet dragging.

"No crap, Sam," Dean pulled his brother along as fast as he could; which was not fast at all.

Sam looked back over his shoulder. "Dean, he's back there. He uses candles for lighting. Lots of them," Sam added unnecessarily.

"I get it, Sammy."

"It'll be like pulling the pin on a half-dozen hand grenades." Sam's muscles bunched up as he dragged his feet, trying to get Dean to slow down.

"Put a lid on it, bitch, and put a move on it or I'll throw you over my shoulder." Dean easily gained control of his injured brother, tugging him along.

"I won't leave him to die," Sam continued to protest and wiggle.

"You'd risk us blowing sky high for Mushroom head?" Dean croaked in agitation.

"Teddy," Sam insisted. "He has a name, Dean."

"Bro, you've been in this underground system too long," Dean explained rationally. "Slowly absorbing all this raw gas has made you dazed and confused. This is no spa vacation, man."

"I'm not confused, Dean. He's a human being."

"Same old song and dance. Up ahead," Dean announced, largely ignoring Sam's feeble protests as they approached the wooden staircase that would lead them out of the underground shelter. "Stairway to Heaven, Sammy. Just about twenty more feet and –"

Dean's words were interrupted as a large, lone form detached itself from the shadows, the hulking body blocking their way out.

"He's good at camouflage. I'll give him that. Stay behind me." Dean let go of Sam and shoved him behind him, gun aimed at the large man's chest.

The giant two-year-old stood with his pink, floppy bunny cradled to his chest. He stared past Dean at Sam, looking much like a deer frozen in the middle of a busy highway.

"Dean, don't shoot."

"No kidding, boy genius. One spark and it's…_bang, zoom_ straight to the moon!"

"Let me talk to him." Sam tried to step forward around Dean.

"I said stay behind me!" Dean shoved Sam back a little too roughly.

"Umph!" Sam ground out. "Damn it, Dean."

Teddy's frozen deer look turned wild, his gaze now directed at Dean as he showed off his rotted teeth, growling like a dog and frothing at the mouth.

"Lassie has rabies, hope to hell he didn't bite you." Dean gripped his gun tighter using everything within him not to let his jerking finger pull the trigger.

Sam stated sternly, "He doesn't…and he didn't."

"How's it we haven't blown to bits yet with that candlelight ceremony going on back there?" Dean asked quietly, thinking just maybe he could get away with taking a kill shot.

"Didn't smell gas back there," Sam panted.

"Of course not," Dean snarled impatiently at the giant man blocking their path. "Teddy. You are one big pain in my ass and I so want to hur-"

Sam slapped a hand over Dean's mouth keeping the word muffled. He leaned in and whispered into his brother's ear, "You so do not want to say that word. You understand me? Some sort of trigger for him," he explained.

Dean nodded his understanding.

Sam slowly removed his hand.

Teddy continued with his crazed growl, eyes never leaving Sam. It made Sam's hair stand on end. He'd never seen Teddy like this. Even when Teddy had his huge hands wrapped around his neck his eyes never shown with real hate like they did now.

Dean's attention split, eyes darting between Sam and the disfigured hulk before him. "Who's the Beauty and who's the Beast?" he questioned sarcastically, still being sure to stand tall – The Great Wall Of China - protecting Sam.

Teddy seemed to be coming more and more agitated by the minute. Shifting restlessly, a large fist struck out to punch a nearby wall, breaking branches and crumbling rocks.

"Teddy, be nice," Sam breathed in lungful's of air. "He's my brother." He tried to sound reassuring, but Teddy was having none of that.

"Listen up, Myth Buster," Dean inched a few steps forward, grabbing Sam by the arm and bringing him along, yet restraining Sam enough that he remained behind him. "Your houseguest is leaving."

Teddy grunted, staring wide-eyed, his forehead ridged with concentration, hands in front of him, fingers nervously fumbling – a scared, lost, angry child not knowing what to do next.

"You're scaring him," Sam noted. "He doesn't like you."

"Good," Dean muttered proudly, and then waved his gun about in a shooing fashion. "Get out of the way, Lerch."

Teddy stopped fumbling with his fingers and moved backward toward the steps still blocking their escape path.

"You stupid son – "

"Dean, please, just give me a minute with him," Sam panted, eyes never leaving Teddy's.

Dean glanced back impatiently at his brother. "Now, Sam. We're leaving now," he ordered firmly. "First person to break wind down here," Dean paused for dramatic effect, "We'll all be joining the circus…for good," he sniffled, his nose tingling from the fumes.

"I know you're scared and confused, Teddy," Sam directed at the man-child, ignoring Dean. "I hate when that happens. But we're friends, right?"

"The hell you are," Dean raged under his breath.

"Dean," Sam gave a warning whisper. "We had fun, didn't we Teddy. Fun." Sam slowly lifted his hand and made the shape of a rabbit and started to hum.

Teddy's face contorted into a weird smile, and he clapped his hands together excitedly, his floppy bunny flinging about as he clapped. "Fun," he roared and pointed even more excitedly toward a wall.

"What the hell," Dean murmured.

Sam continued to ignore Dean. "We can do shadow puppets later, okay," Sam said sweetly.

"Fun." Teddy demanded, clapping his hands louder and faster, the slapping sound echoing off the walls.

"You played puppeteer with IQ negative?" Dean quirked a curious eyebrow at Sam.

"Shut up," Sam growled under his breath, side glancing over at Dean. "It makes him happy."

"Only because he has no idea what's going on. Now follow my lead. I'm going to rush him and get you the hell out of here. On three…we go."

"No go." Teddy shook his head no, his distorted face going steely.

"Sure we can go." Sam stepped out from behind Dean.

"Sammy," Dean cautioned, but allowed it.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam stayed calm and slow and soft, shoulders hunched, making himself look small. "Isn't it okay, Teddy? We can play outside. Come on now." Sam took in a few deep breaths speaking ever so tenderly. "Outside," Sam repeated, rocking off his feet a little, his vision swimming.

Reaching into his overall's pocket, Teddy produced a silver lighter, automatically flipping open the lid.

"Whoa!" Dean shouted out in shock. "What are you doing?" He took a rushed step past Sam, free hand outstretched. "Give me that!"

Teddy staggered back looking a bit ashamed, but did no such thing, only gripping the lighter tighter in one giant, trembling hand, his floppy bunny dangling in the other.

"Dean, no." Sam took a wobbly step to stand beside his brother, gripping Dean's shoulder and holding them both in place.

"Dude! You gave him your lighter?"

"He swiped it," Sam deadpanned, eyes never leaving Teddy's.

"You dumb –"Dean bit into his lip, frustration running high.

"We can't beat him…he has the upper hand." Sam hissed hunching in further on himself.

"Literally," Dean groused, his gun finger itching to pull the trigger.

After a brief stare down with Dean, Teddy turned to stare straight at Sam. "Mine," Teddy gurgled happily his big thumb pressing up and down on the flint wheel, not striking a flame.

"Oh, come on," Dean snapped, locking eyes with Sam.

Teddy began to roll his thumb back and forth over the wheel, this time producing a small white spark, yet still no flame.

"No, no, no," Sam gulped, holding up a placated hand to Teddy. "Listen. Please." Sam's voice was strained with pain and fear. "Put it down. Please. Teddy. Just put it down," he cleared his throat trying to make his voice sound firmer. "Just…it's not a toy."

"Toy," Teddy repeated after Sam, bouncing up and down on his feet and laughing with excitement as he flipped the lid open and shut, then stared at the wall obviously searching for a shadow puppet to magically appear.

"Happy-puppy does not understand English, Sammy." Dean drug Sam over to the side, bracing them up against the wall.

"He understands more than you think," Sam protested, his vision going spotty.

"Sammy, he who has the best toys wins. We are getting off this ride. Now," Dean ordered, inching them forward slowly, eyes focused past Teddy to the stairs that would lead them up and out. "Just hold on to me and don't let your Sasquatch ass pass out."

Sam met Dean's gaze. His face an open book; he knew Dean's plan and he wasn't going for that idea. "No," Sam cried. "I'm not leaving him."

Teddy continued to fiddle with the lighter completely fascinated.

"On my mark." Dean took in a deep breath, and wrapped an arm around Sam's waist tugging him close.

"We can't."

"No choice, little brother. The minute that thing lights we'll all be wearing wings. Get ready…" Dean easily manhandled Sam, advancing them to within a couple of inches of Teddy.

Teddy didn't seem to notice still busy fiddling with the lighter.

"Get set…"

"Dean."

"Go!" Dean leapt forward, latching onto Sam and hauling him along with him just as a whoosh of hot air blew past them.

The explosion was deafening and Teddy vanished from sight in a bright-hot flash of orange.

"Uhhh," Dean groaned, his chin landing with a hard thunk on the first step from the force of the blast, Sam dropping right beside him, his brother coughing heavily.

"Move, move, move." Dean winced, his ears ringing as he immediately tugged Sam to his feet and headed them up the rickety wooden staircase, thick ghostly-gray smoke filling the air and blasts of flames shooting up past them.

"Awww." Sam straggled along, his feet going out from under him and slamming back down to his knees.

"Up, Sam. Stay up," Dean gagged as smoke trailed down his throat and flames ate up the wooden steps chasing after them as if it were a living entity.

"D'n," Sam choked and shuddered. "Can't," he mumbled his eyes rolling up as he sprawled face down onto the steps.

"Hey, hey, hey." Dean dropped to his side, cupping Sam's chin and lifting his face up so he could peer into it.

Sam's eyes were closed, his face paper-white and smooth.

"Sam!"

Sam did not respond.

"Sammy!" Dean tapped the side of his cheek in panic.

"Wha'?" Sam's eyes peeled open for just a split second then rolled as he lost consciousness again.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean called urgently.

Blocking out the sound of crackling fire, Dean moved up a step above Sam. He bent down and gathered his out-cold brother up under the armpits, careful of his cut-to-hell wrists, he began dragging the kid's dead weight up step by step. Dean's legs wobbled fiercely, and for a second Dean thought about a fireman's carry, but was too afraid that would send one of Sam's broken ribs into a lung. The manhandling was bad enough. He winced; envisioning all the more bruises Sam would have after this and it sure wouldn't do his apple sauce for brains any good either. But he had no choice. Was this or wait to be roasted like pigs.

Blood dripped from Dean's chin and down the side of his neck, his eyes burned so badly he couldn't see and his gasping breaths threatened to drag him down into Never, Never Land right along with Sam. It took every energy source he had left to drive himself to keep going, backing up the rickety steps, Sam in tow. His brother's body limp and flopping and thumping all the way up.

The fire was eating everything in sight. Dean could feel the heat, so hot it was chilling. Just when he thought he'd run out of strength and air, he somehow found himself flat on his back, dazedly staring up at the black sky and drawing in raspy, harsh lungful's of night air.

The cool, squishy ground felt good beneath his back, and Dean watched in a daze as black smoke trailed up out of the rusted car's windows and doors. For a brief moment Dean felt a pang of sadness for Teddy.

"Poor, dumb bastard," he mumbled, knowing there would be nothing left of the guy. "You tried, Sammy," he said turning his head and looking over at Sam.

The kid lay next to him spread out flat on his back, his head turned away from Dean. "D'n," Sam choked and retched. "Dean," he called more clearly rolling onto his side and trying to claw his way toward the Duster still billowing black smoke.

"Hey!" Dean clambered up to his knees next to Sam. "I'm right over here." He gently turned Sam back toward him. "Over here."

The kid continued to buck, hacking and spitting and trying to get to his feet.

"I have to get…Dean." Sam's struggles got him nowhere as strings of saliva dripped out his mouth. "Dean."

"No, no. It's okay." Dean gently scooted around and pulled Sam's upper body into his lap, wrapping firm arms around him to hold him in place.

Sam could barely keep his head up eyes tracking anxiously around him.

"Sam. It's okay. I'm right here." Dean laid a gentle hand on the center of Sam's chest.

Sam exchanged a relieved look with Dean then focused on the smoke welling up out of the Duster. "Teddy?" he heaved in gulps of air, hard tears welling in his eyes as he peered back up at Dean.

Dean pressed his lips together, but said nothing.

Sam shut his eyes tight.

"Can't save everyone, Sammy," Dean deadpanned.

"Sick and tired of hearing that…" Sam breathed Dean's name on a sigh, his head slowly rolling off to one side, passing out again.

Dan stared at Sam a long time nodding his head. "Me too, Sammy." He glanced at the smoke pouring out of the rusted Duster, the fire burning itself out, destroying everything left below. "Me too."

TBC...

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	8. The Family Doctor

Beware Of The…

Winchester Tag

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

**Tag:**

It was like he'd been caught up in a wind storm, sucked right into the snaking, tumbling, turbo-twisted funnel cloud. For the longest time all he could do was try to breath and grunt through the fiery pain. Then for some odd reason the spinning came to a sudden back-slamming stop. The buckets of vomit sloshing around in his gut settling. Now he just floated mindlessly in the dusky-gray cloud, disturbing and discombobulated images sailing sluggishly on by:

A bumpy, dirt rutted road. Tall grass. Wet mist. An old farm house. A shiny black car. The carved out face of a pumpkin with two noses and three eyes. A giant child's fingers gently tracing patterns on his cheeks. A worried face drawing close. A penlight shined in his eyes. Someone apologizing as they drug him up a set of rickety steps or was that an elevator?

Sam swallowed down his sickness and tried to breathe through the jostling, bone-searing pain in his chest.

Now and again he moaned, trying to reach out and grab hold of one of the images, but a strong, anchoring hand would always be there. Reaching back out through the fog to grab hold him, an echoey voice in his ear telling him it was okay and to take it easy and to try not to move so much and go back to sleep for a while.

Sam struggled for a long time, stubbornly protesting against the bossy voice, arguing with the hands that firmly held him down.

"Well then if you are not going to go back to sleep…eyes, Sam. Front and center."

Sam frowned, but did as he was ordered, creaking his eyes open to see a ray of light filtering in through a half-boarded up window. His gaze wandered around, the room nothing but a blur. He took a second look at the window, staring more intently, squinting hard. Focusing harder.

No, wasn't a boarded up window…

"Arghhhg!" Sam grunted.

"Hey, stick with me, Sammy, easy, okay, dude?" That same anchoring hand came to his shoulder.

Sam turned his head and stared at the hand for a long time, then slowly raised his eyes to lock onto a pair of shining green ones that stared deeply back into his.

"You've been having a rough time with this fever," Dean said softly, picking up a green coffee mug off the nightstand, and using a teaspoon stirred the contents. "Our family doctor suggested this to help with the flu-like symptoms you have from being down in that damp cold place so long," he said, reaching to a small plate full of cut up lemons and adding a slice to the mug.

"Dean, we don't have a family doctor," Sam muttered eyeing the mug with suspicion.

"Yes we do. Bobby," Dean explained, slipping a hand behind Sam's head and cradling it in his palm. "Drink it," he said firmly placing the rim of the mug against Sam's cracked lips.

Sam took one small sip and swallowed. The hot, lemony liquid slipped down his bone-dry throat and he moaned his thanks.

"Little bit more," Dean coaxed.

Licking his lips Sam took another sip. "What is in it?"

"Fresh lemon, four ounces of hot tap water, one tablespoon of honey," Dean pressed the mug back to Sam's lips. "And a little bit more."

Sam gladly sipped more; it felt good and made him feel floaty again.

"More." Dean raised the steaming cup as Sam drank. "Soothes your sore throat, clears up your snot nose and relaxes your aching muscles, and numbs your broken bones, huh?"

Sam couldn't answer to busy gulping.

"Key ingredient is the whiskey, to get a jump on the forgetting," Dean made the mistake of saying.

Sam spit out what little was left in his mouth.

"Whoa there, tiger!" Dean pulled the mug away and gently eased Sam's head back down onto the soft pillows. "You want to throw up again?"

"Again?" Sam coughed his throat feeling better. "How…how many times…?"

"Dude, I don't know," Dean barked setting the mug on the nightstand along with the rest of the drugstore he had arranged there. "I didn't have time to do the math, man."

Sam nodded weakly. "I was pretty bad off, huh?"

Dean shrugged. "Seen you worse." He picked up a washcloth and dipped it into an ice bucket full of melting ice cubes. "Seen you better," he said, gently washing Sam's sweaty face, and neck, arms and chest.

"Forgetting what?" Sam frowned, glancing down at the red-silk sheet pulled up to his waist. He wasn't wearing any clothes except for his boxers, yet his body was boiling hot, sweaty with fever, and weighted heavily in the cloudlike, queen-sized bed.

"See. It's working." Dean redipped the cloth and rubbed Sam down all over again, the sharp, antiseptic smell of rubbing alcohol assaulting his nose.

Sam took in more of his surroundings briefly as he shivered under the covers. The room was large and impressive, all crushed velvet, crystal chandelier, polished silver, and sparkling champagne. Five stars for sure – maybe even six. Not their usual digs. There was a pull out sofa bed across the room. A rumpled goose-down comforter and huge fluffy pillows tossed about. Obviously it had been where his messy brother had slept, or not slept as the flat screen TV not far from the couch was still on.

Sam eyed his brother. Dean had four stitches running across the length of his chin, black circles under his eyes and a grim look on his face.

"You need to sleep," Sam said, knowing every time he made so much as a sigh in his sleep, Dean would be there by his side.

"I need to get you up and around, little brother. I paid good money and got us both scheduled for a guy's day. Pedicures, stylish haircuts, hot steam towel facials, one hour in a bronzing bed, all topped off with full-on private body massages, " Dean said excitedly. "I get the chick that looks like Princess Jasmine. Dude, you get the chick that looks like Betty White."

"Of course I do." Sam frowned.

His head hurt so bad he could feel the veins in his temples popping out with each beat of his heart, and if he wasn't lying on the cloudlike bed, or had drank who knew how many 'family doctor suggestions' his ribs would be carving him up from the inside out. He didn't chance moving around, letting only his eyes move, wandering over to the fully equipped kitchen off in one corner. It was warm and fancy and spacious. With lighted oak cabinets and shiny black marble countertops that reminded him of the Impala. Strewn about were bags of chips and pretzels and candy wrappers and cans of pop. Next to that was a refrigerator with glass doors allowing Sam to see what was inside. The fancy silver ice-box was stock full of goodies galore. From Little Debbie's snack cakes to Dagwood layered sandwiches, a dozen brown bottles of beer, two clear pitchers of what looked to be fresh-squeezed orange juice, several whole, baked pies, a vegetable drawer full of all the fixings to create a fresh salad, gallons of ice cream and thick steaks in the freezer section. On one shelf standing out alone was even a bowl full of large ruby-red strawberries dipped in chocolate and decorated to look like mini-tuxedos.

Gaze still wandering, Sam realized what he'd thought was a boarded up window were in actuality heavy-duty tan velvet drapes, meant to block out the sun.

Sam frowned deeper. _This was no run-of-the-mill roach motel_. "W-where?" Sam's voice was horse and low as he peered back at Dean.

"This place rocks it out, huh, Sammy. Fancy-schmancy. Snooty, Alfred dudes dressed up in penguin suits wearing gray gloves and calling you sir." Dean smiled and nodded happily dropping the wet cloth back onto the nightstand. "Free porn and video games, gourmet coffee, real butter. Grey Poupon…one of life's finer pleasures." Dean's smile widened even bigger. "Pretty cool, right?"

"What is wrong with –" Sam stammered coughing slightly, "With you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me, Sam. I'm my shamelessly- awesome usual self," Dean said crankily. "You're the one who decided to catch your death of cold on top of an infection on top of a concussion on top of broken ribs," he continued to rant. "Your temperature rose and plummeted, rose and plummeted," Dean shrieked his voice rising half-pissed off, half-scared out of his gourd. "You were like some friggin' whack-a-doodle elevator gone haywire. Sammy, I thought….I thought..." Dean bit into his bottom lip, shaking his head helplessly.

"Dean, I –"Sam coughed heavier, and cringed, eyes slamming shut and fists clenched at his sides.

"Easy, bro. Pain meds have **worn** off. Family doctor's suggestion should kick in soon." Dean covered one of Sam's hands with his own and gave a gentle squeeze, then dipped the cloth again and started to dab at Sam's forehead.

"Thanks for the hot tip, Sponge Bath Betty." Sam held back a cough, pressing his free hand against his chest.

Dean drew back, eyes going wide. "You…Sponge Bath…you," he stumbled over his own tongue. "Smartass," Dean sighed, exasperated. "You were a lot less annoying unconscious," he grumbled.

"What happened?" Sam asked seriously, staring up at Dean expectantly.

"You want a play-by-play?" Dean raised an inquisitive brow.

Sam didn't dare nod, just blinked twice for yes – their standard code for when one of them had a concussion.

Dean took in a deep breath. "I had to haul your Goliath ass all the way back to the car, even knocked out cold you were in a lot of pain, took me ten friggin' minutes to get your long, gangly ass stuffed into the seat and strapped in. I jumped in behind the wheel, blasted the heater and the tunes and peeled out of there. Drove us for about two hours until your condition worsened and you puked all over Baby." Dean made a disgusted face. "Found this awesome hotel, checked us in, took you up the back elevator, dumped your giant limp ass into the giant fluffy assed bed and been nursing your bruised and battered freakishly large fevered-up body back to health ever since." Dean shrugged and glanced at the nightstand clock. "About three days' worth of nursing to be exact."

Sam glanced at his tapped up chest then his tapped up writs. The white gauze wrapped around them, blood-stained.

"Stitches hurting?" Dean questioned, noticing where Sam's gaze had landed.

"No, I'm good."

"I've got to do a better job," Dean muttered, lifting up one of Sam's hands to peek under the gauze.

"Of what?" Sam winced.

"Of protecting you."

"Frankly impossible," Sam smiled weakly, knowing Dean would die and sell his very soul for him should it come to that.

Dean picked up the other wrist and did the same, only this time he began to unwrap the gauze. "This is the one that got infected. Time to change the bandage," he said with sympathy in his voice.

Sam cringed and closed his eyes, breathing heavy, and his chest making a strange rattling noise.

"Still with me?" Dean asked, softly running his thumb along Sam's jaw line.

Eyes still closed, Sam had to think real hard. Concussions did that to a guy. The images that came to him burned with rawness as everything suddenly made sense. "Just tell…tell me. What happened to…to him?"

"Guess I didn't give you enough of a jump on the forgetting part," Dean muttered sadly.

There was a moment of silence.

Sam reluctantly opened his eyes and blinked up at Dean.

Dean took a breath and shook his head venomously. "He didn't make it, pal."

Sam gulped down a lung full of air, and pressed his lips thin. "I know."

Dean stared at Sam long and hard, could see the pain in his brother's eyes. "Barely got the two of us out of there, buddy," he expressed sadly.

Sam looked away.

"You okay?" Dean muttered.

"I promised him, Dean, promised I'd help him." Sam continued to look away.

"Sammy you know you did all you could. Don't even go there….he would have ended up in an institution or science lab. He would have never adjusted to society and society to him. You know that." Dean cupped Sam's chin turning him toward him. "I'm… uh…I'm sorry, man."

"Can't save everyone can we, Dean?"

"Frankly impossible," Dean said strongly.

Sam's eyes welled up with tears. "I'll have some more of that crap the family doctor recommends."

Dean nodded. "Coming right up, bro. Coming right up."


	9. The Vagabond and The Giant

Beware Of The…

Teddy Tag

"_**We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." **_

_― Dr. Seuss_

_/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/_

As the moon slid out from behind a cloud to illuminate the darkened street corner, two lone figures ducked down a narrow alleyway.

"This way." Herby waved at the large hulk of a man to follow him farther down the alley. "Up here, "he pointed to the fire escape, "We'll be safe up here for the night."

The two climbed up the rickety, iron structure to the rooftop. "Wait here." The old vagabond disappeared around a brick corner.

The hulking man whimpered loudly.

"Sheesh…miss me already, do yeah?" A bout of laughter filled the air. "Just hold on there, Bubalouie. I'm coming right back in a giff."

Herby came out from around the corner carrying a bundle of old newspapers. "Just amazin', Herby quipped. "Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes." He handed the bundle of newspapers to the giant man. "Hold these," he said, peeling one at a time off the pile, opening the sheet up, giving it a little shake, and then spreading the papers out like a blanket on the tar-covered roof. "Haven't had me a friend in years. Ghost of a chance me happening across you. Good thing too. I never thought being a medic in that damned, God forsaken, bullshit war would come in handy in this here real world." Herby stood, proudly looking at the Giant man. "I know you're not one hundred and ten percent," he said wincing at the giant man's burns and bloody gauze-wrapped arm and leg, "And I really don't like you being out here in the cool night air, but ain't no shelters out there for mongrels like us, Bub," Herby said matter-of-factly. "Sides that, we can't let them find us. Got to keep movin' spot to spot."

The giant man shuddered, looking bewildered at Herby.

"'Them' is anyone who don't look like us, you see?" the old man tried to explain.

The giant man grunted, unable to take his eyes off Herby.

Not bothered by his new friend's lack of words or wide-eyed stares, Herby continued. "'Course you probably already know that." Herby took another sheet of newspaper from the bundle the giant was holding, snapped it in the wind and spread it on top of the others. "Now you should know…I'm no drug addict, or drunk, and I ain't no beggar neither. I fend for myself… you see? Came back from the damned, God forsaken, bullshit war this way. " He shrugged. "What happened to you? Orphaned in a storm? Raised by a money-hungry circus ringmaster? Both?"

The giant man shuffled uneasily in place.

"Yup. You're right." Herby nodded. "Guess we don't needs to be cluttering up our friendship with our damned, God forsaken, bullshit history and ruined souls," he said, shaking his head.

The giant man wrapped his arms around himself and hugged tight.

"If'n it makes you feel any better, I think I'm way uglier than you," Herby chuckled loudly.

The giant man grunted in reply, his tummy rumbling.

Herby frowned. "We'll find us something to eat in the morning. Only I'm not sure if'n I should be feeding you baby formula or fifty pounds of rare beef." He eyed the dirty state the giant man was in. "We'll get you clean-shaven too," he added as an afterthought. "You'll be lost in a sea of homeless faces just like the rest of us street folk in no time." Herby's frown deepened as he looked upon the man's swollen, fleshy, ape-like face. "Well, maybe we might have to add an oversized hoodie to your get-up."

The giant whimpered, his chest rising and falling in a struggling way, reaching a hand over to rub at his injured shoulder.

"So... talk is cheap," Herby rubbed his hands together in anticipation, "Up here is like our own personal space. We'll be safe. Go ahead and lie down." He waved a hand over the newspaper bed.

The giant man didn't move, looking troubled as a tear rolled down his wrinkled, burnt cheek.

"It's okay. I'll show yeah. 'S not so bad." Herby hobbled over and very slowly lay on his back upon the newspapers, folding his hands over his stomach and staring up at the star-filled sky. "See those tiny specks of light?" He pointed a crooked finger upward. "They're like a billion-light-some-years away and still we can see them with our naked eyes." He turned to look at the giant of a man who still didn't make a move to lie down. "Well," Herby chuckled lightly, "Three naked eyes in your case."

The giant man's gaze never left Herby's.

Herby smiled up at his new found friend, and patted the ground next to him. "Come on now. Lie down. Rest."

The big man finally giving in to his exhaustion and fear, lumbered over and lay beside Herby, he too was staring up at the night sky.

"That's it." Herby studied the silent giant beside him sadly. "You ever wonder what lies beyond them there stars? Beyond this endlessly cold, cruel world?"

The giant man beside him said nothing, just kept staring upward, fingers fiddling with each other nervously.

Herby shook his head. "I ain't done much good in this life. Nope. I'm a nobody. A hermit with a face my mother couldn't even love, and I don't know what your story is. How you got to be how you are. But… well…way I figure it, two ugly faces is better than one. Right?"

The giant man's hands laced in prayer.

"You stick with me, okay, Bub? There's bunches of bad people out there. Bunches of good people out there too, but they're afraid of different. Stare at different… even if they don't want to. So we hide and scavenge and survive in the shadows best we can. We are not one of them anymore, understand?"

The Giant man shivered.

"Don't you fret none. I am not going to be the one who lets you die." Herby reached over and laid his hand over the top of the giant man's praying hands and gave a squeeze. "I'm going to take care of you. From now on I am your buddy and you are mine."

"Mine." The giant man smiled up at the sky, nodding his head in acceptance his eyes twinkling brighter than the Milky Way.

The end


End file.
